The Canadian Rogues– Run And Hide / Love And Dreams

I picked up this absolute monster a few years back — right here locally, which still feels like spotting a moose in a Walmart parking lot. The Canadian Rogues. From Lakeland, Florida. It’s the kind of geographical plot twist that makes me wonder if the universe is just messing with me for sport. Perfect, honestly, because if you’ve ever been in Florida during winter, you know it turns into a temporary Canadian province. Snowbirds everywhere. You can practically hear the faint echo of “sorry” drifting across the Gulf (of Mexico).

And I do wonder — with the current bullshit arena we’re all watching unfold — whether Florida’s getting boycotted by the Canadian snowbirds. I picture them holding emergency meetings: “Okay, lads, we’re skipping Florida this year. Too spicy. We’re going to… Jamaica.” Then they all nod solemnly and eat Timbits.

Anyway — flashback to Clearwater, ten years ago, when I was down there taking care of my mother‑in‑law’s place. I wandered into this record store that looked like it had been hit by a 45‑rpm tornado. Boxes everywhere. Stacks. Piles. Geological layers of vinyl sediment. And there’s this guy — list in hand — hunting obscure doo‑wop like he’s on a government mission. From Canada, of course. Wintering in Florida. Naturally. The ecosystem is consistent.

This Canadian Rogues 45? Fantastic two‑sider. First Paris Tower label I ever found. And you KNOW I’m a sucker for extras —pictures, flyers, weird little promo writeups, anything that looks like it was photocopied in 1965 by a guy named Earl. I live for that stuff.

So here’s the plan for my Saturday: I am going to relish the start of my vacation like a man who has earned it through sheer stubbornness. Sure, I’ll have to work a few hours during the week — because apparently, I enjoy punishing myself — but mostly it’s going to be me, the computer, a stack of 45s, and the sweet hum of digitizing songs like some kind of vinyl‑powered monk.

And then? Colorado game prep. Manifesting a big beatdown so we can be 2–0, baby. Sko Buffs. I want the kind of victory that makes the opposing team question their sport choices and maybe take up pottery.

Isley Brothers - Take Some Time Out For Love/Just Ain't Enough Love

I think it is important to take a moment on this date — Friday, September 11th — to sit with the weight of what happened twenty‑five years ago. Hard to believe it’s been that long, because the memory still feels sharp enough to cut. I was a Case Manager then, heading out for a home visit with one of my more… let’s say “character‑building” families. NPR was on in the car, and I remember the broadcast shifting from routine morning chatter into something jagged and unreal. Confusion, chaos, disbelief — all of it hitting at once.

By the time I got back to the office, we were glued to the TV like it was the only anchor left in the room. The whole day felt suspended, like time had stopped but somehow kept hurting anyway.

And yet — because life insists on being strange and layered — I can go from that somber memory straight into talking about how a promo 60s Tamla/Motown 45 can jolt my bloodstream before the needle even touches the groove. There’s something electric about those labels, those fonts, that era. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the world’s biggest Motown/Tamla collector, but I think it’s because my brain can’t help comparing the giants to the overlooked gems.

You look at the Supremes racking up hit after hit, and then you think about the songs that slipped through the cracks — like that Vala Reegan 45 I posted, which is still one of my all‑time favorites. It’s wild how something so good can be ignored while the spotlight blasts elsewhere.

And then there are the Isley Brothers, who just kept cranking out classics like it was a bodily function. They’re in that Hall of Shame — the one where legendary artists get overshadowed while lesser acts somehow skate by with more recognition. It’s maddening, but also part of the charm of digging: finding the brilliance history forgot to underline. This time the Hall got it right!

So on this day, let the emotional weight of those tragic events twenty‑five years ago settle where it needs to — and be comforted, even if only slightly, by the spirit, the soul, and the strange healing properties of music. Because if anything has ever known how to hold grief without dropping it, it’s a record spinning in a quiet room.

The Tiaras - I'm Gonna Forget You/You Told Me

I slept maybe… three minutes last night. Or this morning. Or in some alternate timeline where I’m a well‑rested adult who makes good choices. But no — I was still wired from yesterday’s fast‑paced chaos, the kind of day where your brain forgets how to shut off and instead just hums like a malfunctioning fluorescent light.

So I start yesterday morning by doing something responsible: heading to Lowe’s to return a water filter for my refrigerator they claimed would fit but was the wrong one of course. Great. Adulting. Gold star. Then I decide — on a lark, because of course — to swing by a thrift store on the way to the doctor. And this is where the universe says, “Oh, you wanted peace today? Cute.”

I’ve neglected this particular thrift store for a year because it’s an hour away and historically has offered me zero 45s and maximum disappointment. But it’s only open Wednesday and Saturday, and I did schedule my doctor appointment for Wednesday like a man with a plan, so in I go.

I walk to the media section. Same long cabinet of albums as last year. Packed tight. I remember the dismal selection. I sigh. I look right — and see crates upon crates upon crates (times twelve) of albums. My hopes rise… then immediately face‑plant when I realize they’re all classical. Thousands of classical and white gospel LPs, the kind that will outlive the sun.

I’m thinking, “Well, at least I’ll be early for my appointment,” when suddenly — there they are. Piles. And piles. And piles. Of 45s.

My inner Frank Zappa screams “GREAT GOOGALIMOOGLY!”

I drop to the floor like a pilgrim reaching the holy land. (Don’t judge me. If you dig 45s standing up, you’re either lying or have knees made of titanium.) I open a 45 carrier — promos. Soul, country, rock. Boom. I start making a pile like an uncaffeinated pirate in a treasure chest.

Then I check my watch. And curse. Loudly. I’m out of time. I grab what I can, hustle to the front, and of course the clerk is chatting leisurely with two customers who have nowhere to be. I’m vibrating with urgency. I’m going to be late. I’ve counted the 54 records so she doesn’t have to. She finally rings me up — a buck apiece — and casually mentions LPs are now $5 because “a guy who KNOWS records” comes in. Fantastic. Enjoy your eternal mountain of classical LPs, my friend.

I pay, channel my inner Arnold Schwarzenegger, and tell her “I’ll be back.”

I speed to the doctor, make it on time, and immediately remember I haven’t had coffee or food. I have a headache the size of Delaware. Damn 10 a.m. fasting appointments. As soon as I’m free, I beeline to Royal Farms for a giant coffee and a coffee cake, the breakfast of champions who are barely holding it together.

I hit one more shop on the way back — find a cool psych 45 for a buck — then return to the thrift store and pull 27 more 45s from the vinyl vortex.

Lunch happens. CEU call happens. I drive home with the enthusiasm of a man who has both caffeine and new records.

Once home, I repair my ultrasonic cleaner — and let me tell you, take pictures before replacing motherboards. Their instructions were fine, but my photos saved me from turning the machine into a very expensive paperweight. It works like a charm, and I immediately give a Northern Soul banger the spa treatment.

And now here I am, writing a dissertation at 2:30am before I’ve even started the coffee pot.

So happy Girl Group Thursday — today’s spotlight: The Tiara’s, a California trio who dropped two 45s on Valiant before disappearing into the great mist of musical obscurity.

Johnny Day and the Rhythm Boys - Take My Hand, Take My Heart/Memories of Your Love

I woke up this morning like a man who’d been unplugged from the wall overnight. No coffee. No aroma. No brain‑tickle. Just me, fasting, staring at the coffee pot like it’s an ex who moved on too quickly. The smell alone usually flips the breaker in my skull and powers everything back on, but today? Today coffee was a myth. A rumor. A shimmering mirage in the desert of my kitchen.

And because my brain was running on fumes and spite, I reached for some obscure country 45 — the kind where you squint at the label hoping it’s actually some wild rockabilly burner disguised under a cowboy hat. It wasn’t. But it was still pretty good. And honestly, where else are you going to stumble across this kind of weird, dusty gem unless you’re following me like a vinyl‑obsessed cryptid tracker?

Soon I’ve gotta hit the road for the doctor appointment, which means the majority of my morning will be spent driving, pretending the CEU call is riveting, and plotting small obscure shops to hit for a little crate digging. Maybe a little “I deserve this” record‑store victory lap. And absolutely — ABSOLUTELY — that first cup of coffee after the 10am test. The one that’s going to hit my bloodstream like a revival tent miracle.

Leonard Wayne and the Impacts - That's All I Want To Do / You Didn't Have To Laugh

Back to work, baby — and nothing gets my brain firing on all cylinders like dropping the needle on some sweet, obscure wax while I pretend, I’m a highly organized adult with a functioning schedule.

So here I am, easing into this short work week like a man who’s already halfway out the door. Tomorrow is going to be a whole cinematic experience. I’m off for a doctor’s appointment — and not the quick “in‑and‑out, here’s a sticker” kind. No, I’ve got the deluxe package: a 75‑mile drive, a needle poke, a couple scans, and then, because I’m me, the sacred ritual of crate digging as a reward for surviving modern medicine. Honestly, it’s the most accurate snapshot of my life: Wake up → drive forever → get poked → get scanned → immediately look for obscure 45s like a Pacman who only eats vinyl. It’s glamorous in the way only my version of glamorous can be.

Of course, tomorrow also comes with the CEU call — the kind you have to listen to in the truck while driving back from the doctor, nodding along like “yes, absolutely, very important information,” even though you’re really thinking about lunch. But hey, free CEUs? I’ll take those as I’m a responsible professional!

Thursday and Friday work days are stacked like a pair of overstuffed jukeboxes. After that? Next week is mine. A well‑deserved rest. A spiritual reset. A chance to remember what silence sounds like but silence is absolutely not on the menu — not when I’ve got the new Dinosaur Jr album queued up and ready to blast at full Spinal Tap 11, the setting reserved for moments of deep reflection, emotional clarity, and rattling the drywall.

Now, the soundtrack to this fine Tuesday: Leonard Wayne And The Impacts. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and the Hi‑Tones. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and whoever happened to be standing in the studio that day. The release history is murkier than a thrift‑store mystery box, but the 45 itself? Absolute fire.

“That’s All I Want To Do” and “You Didn’t Have To Laugh” — two sides of a record that feel like they were pressed specifically to make my morning better. The version I’ve got is probably the first pressing, based on the scant detective work I’ve done (picture me squinting at matrix numbers like a noir gumshoe). But whatever its lineage, it’s killer. The kind of killer that makes you forget you’re technically supposed to be working.

And speaking of killer — the parts for my ultrasonic record cleaner finally arrived yesterday. Tonight, if the stars align correctly (and if Cooper doesn’t decide he needs emergency attention), I’ll be assembling that thing like a mad scientist building a vinyl‑restoration death ray. If it works, my 45s are about to get spa‑day clean.

But until then? Enjoy this mysterious, punchy, collector‑bait 45, A salute to Tuesday: short week, sweet sounds, mysterious pressings, and the eternal hunt for free CEUs.

Annette - The Monkeys Uncle

A glorious day off — the kind where the dark, the stars and the quarter moon, and the slight breeze hit just right and Super Cooper The Wonder Dog strutted around like he personally negotiated the weather. After our walk (where he led, and I merely followed like his unpaid intern), I did the usual: shower, coffee, pretend I’m a functioning adult.

Then it happened. My distracted brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Hey… what if we went into the spare room and surrounded yourself in 45s?” And like a fool, I listened. Next thing I know, I’m knee‑deep in boxes of 45s, pulling them out like I’m on some archaeological dig for tiny vinyl relics. I swear my world must want to crush me under endless piles of 45s — like a Looney Tunes gag but with more obscure labels and regional pressings.

So now I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by stacks of 45s to clean, play, and “enjoy,” which is code for “rediscover the same records I’ve already rediscovered twelve times.”

Eventually, I became un‑distracted (a rare event when it comes to records) and checked what I’d recorded over the past month for my Monday surf/drag theme. And there it was: Annette Funicello with the Beach Boys.

Instant childhood flashback.

I remember watching that movie as a kid — all those Disney flicks where everything was sunny, wholesome, and slightly weird. The opening credits rolled, Annette and the Beach Boys kicked in, and tiny me thought, This is the greatest song ever recorded by humans. So explain to me how this wasn’t a hit? The Beach Boys were at the top of their game. They could’ve sung the phone book and charted.

Maybe if Buena Vista had slapped “BEACH BOYS” across the sleeve in giant letters instead of pretending they were just some guys Annette found at a beach rental, it might’ve had a chance. But no — Capitol probably pulled their classic “We’re being (oh I wanted to use dirty words) today” routine and buried the credit like it was radioactive.

Annette says “everyday is Valentines,” so consider this my chalk‑candy kiss to you — the kind that tastes like sugar, nostalgia, and a little bit of surf‑rock injustice.

 

Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama - To That Land/A Letter To A Mother's Son

Last night my Fitbit swore I slept like a tranquilized koala, but wearable tech is basically that coworker who confidently gives advice about things they know nothing about. It’s not my body — it’s just a tiny wrist narc collecting data and making bold assumptions about how I “should” feel.

Reality check: I woke up more than an hour before the coffee timer even thought about doing its job. I stayed in bed, grabbed a few extra minutes of actual human sleep, and when the coffee finally kicked off, I got up and got dressed. Cooper looked at me like, “Dude… it’s not even 5 a.m. yet. Seek help.”

But off we went, hitting the sidewalks like two fugitives from the Land of Insomnia. I had Underground Garage on Sirius in my headphones because Coast to Coast AM was deep into one of those topics that makes you question whether the callers have ever interacted with a real human being.

As we walked, my brain tried to drag me down the Negative Nellie Trail — the roof situation, the ultrasonic record cleaner deciding to reenact a Greek tragedy (new parts tomorrow), the washing machine still down with the repair place shrugging like, “Parts? Who knows.” My mind was basically auditioning for the role of “Guy Who Catastrophizes Before Sunrise.”

And then I saw him — a man riding a bicycle way too small for him, balancing a giant trash bag full of clothes on his way to the laundromat. I’ve been to the laundromat recently more times than I want to count, sure, but I went in a car. I know each wash is six bucks. He’s probably spending twenty, then pedaling home like a pack mule.

And suddenly my complaints evaporated. I have shelter. Food. A working dryer. A life full of material comforts and blessings. The roof will get replaced. The machines will get fixed. The chaos will settle. These trials aren’t punishments — they’re reminders. GOD is telling me to trust Him, and I do.

Now, onto today’s musical sermon: The Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama — if you believe the cogs of dis chaos — released only three records, and this one, “To That Land / A Letter To A Mother’s Son,” is the only one under that exact name. The other two came out with slight name variations, and their first record was on Ascot, of all labels — pre‑Manfred Mann era, back when Ascot was still figuring out what it wanted to be when it grew up. And yes, I know this sleeve doesn’t belong with the Peacock 45, but honestly? It looks biblically cool, so it stays.