Otis Williams And The Charms - I Fall To Pieces/Gotta Get Myself Together

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.”

California Spectrum- She May Call You Up Tonight/Rainbo

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.

First Class - Funny How Love Can Be/ Surfer Queen

Oh wow — what is it with record companies and their obsession with assembling fake groups? Here we go again.

This studio creation featured Tony Burrows, the undisputed Olympic gold medalist of studio‑only pop vocals. The man was basically a one‑man British Invasion, whose voice powered a whole parade of one‑hit wonders under at least five different band names. He’s the voice behind “Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)” by Edison Lighthouse, “United We Stand” by Brotherhood of Man, “My Baby Loves Lovin’” by White Plains (some despite on this one), “Gimme Dat Ding” by the Pipkins, and “Beach Baby” by First Class.

At this point, Burrows wasn’t just singing hits — he was speed‑running the entire concept of “one‑hit wonder.” Naturally, Beach Baby hits #4 in the U.S. charts  and the record company immediately panics:“Quick! We need a touring band!” Meanwhile the studio musicians are looking around like, “Tour? Us? Oh no, sweetie, we don’t tour. We overdub.” So the label does what labels do: they slap the First Class name on a touring band and more 45s and hope no one notices the band is about as real as Bigfoot. Today’s cover‑version curiosity was one of those attempts — a minor U.S. hit that barely cracked the charts at #74, which is basically the chart equivalent of “participation trophy.”

I kept wondering why they covered this particular song. Then it clicked. John Carter — the producer who assembled First Class — wasn’t just behind the curtain. He was the original singer and writer of the song back when he was in the Ivy League, a mid‑60s UK band that had approximately zero impact in the States. I own their original version, which means I’m one of maybe twelve people on Earth who do.

So really, this wasn’t a cover. This was Carter saying, “You know what? Let’s give my old tune a second chance. Maybe this time people will actually hear it.”

Huxton Creepers - Pretty Flamingo

Why not keep the obscure‑cover streak alive. Once you start digging in that corner of the musical attic, it’s hard to stop — everything down there glows with its own strange little light.

Take the Huxton Creepers, for example. An Australian group who, for one brief, jangly moment, nudged their way onto the Australian charts with a version of “Pretty Flamingo” so faithful you can almost see Manfred Mann nodding in approval from across the decades. It’s clean, bright, earnest — the kind of cover that doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel, just gives it a fresh spin and a little extra shine. Personally, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Tommy Roe version off the Sweet Pea LP — that slightly sugary, sun‑washed vibe he had going — but that’s me wandering off into the weeds again.

Somewhere in the archaeological dig site I call my spillout record room — or, if we’re being brutally honest, my music hoarder room — I’m pretty sure there’s a Huxton Creepers cassette on Big Time Records. It’s probably wedged sideways in a forgotten box of tapes I keep telling myself I’ll alphabetize someday.

I wrote recently about how Big Time swallowed Dumptruck whole and then spit them back out into the world, dazed and blinking. But really, you could say that about most of the bands who passed through their doors. The Creepers had talent, hooks, momentum — and a label that couldn’t quite keep its own wheels from wobbling off. The Creepers were part of that constellation: bright, promising, orbiting a star that flickered out too soon.

And maybe that’s why these obscure covers feel so good to revisit. They’re little time capsules from an alternate universe where these bands got the push they deserved — where the songs didn’t just become minor hits, but major moments. For now, though, they live in the dust and the spines and the half‑forgotten shelves of rooms like mine, waiting for the next time I decide to keep the streak going.

The T-Bones - The Midnight Hour / Summertime

Monday’s Cover Version serves up a mystery so obscure even the internet — that all‑knowing oracle of cat videos and half‑remembered facts — shrugs and walks away.

To appreciate the weirdness, you need the T‑Bones origin story. What you have here is an acetate from The T‑Bones — a group famous for being, at various times, (1) not a group, (2) a touring group pretending to be the group, and (3) a different group entirely that later became another group. Simple, really.

The “band” wasn’t a band at all. Liberty Records needed a band. The Wrecking Crew needed a paycheck.  A handshake was exchanged, a name was slapped on the sleeve, and boom: The T‑Bones were “born,” sketched into existence like a cartoon suspect — one circle for a head, one alias for a name, and no questions asked.

Then “No Matter What Shape” became a hit, and Liberty realized they needed actual humans to tour. The Wrecking Crew said, “No way, the cash in the studio is better". And who could argue? In the studio, the air‑conditioning worked, the coffee was free, and nobody asked you to mime along to your own playing in front of teenagers. The T‑Bones “band” existed on paper, but the Wrecking Crew existed on the payroll — and that’s the version history tends to remember. Enter a revolving door of touring musicians, and for the final T-Bones album Joe Frank Carollo, Danny Hamilton, and Tommy Reynolds — the musical equivalent of stunt doubles who eventually take over the whole movie just before they’d reinvent themselves in the ’70s as Hamilton, Joe Frank & Reynolds.  

Fast‑forward to this acetate. It was not released on a 45. It’s not on an album. It’s not on Discogs, Wikipedia, or that one guy on a forum who claims to know everything about obscure ’60s pressings.

And yet here it is, a Liberty acetate with “In the Midnight Hour” and “Summertime,” both performed with the kind of energy that suggests someone in the studio said, “Let’s make this one count, just in case Liberty is listening.” Spoiler: Liberty was not listening.

Did it chart? No. Would it have charted? Also no. Should Liberty have released it anyway? Absolutely — if only to save that one T-Bones completist collector from tearing their hair out.

How many copies were pressed? Hard to say. Could be a handful. Could be one. Could be that Liberty cut it, shrugged, and tossed the rest into a filing cabinet now serving as a planter in someone’s backyard. But I can confirm at least one. And it lives with me, a relic from a band that wasn’t a band, playing songs they never released, on a record no one knew existed.  

Pacific Gas & Electric - Wade In The Water/ Live Love

The plan — if we can call it that — is to make this a cover‑version week. I say “plan” loosely because the week isn’t fully mapped out, and honestly, that’s half the fun. Maybe it’ll be a glorious run of rediscovered gems; maybe it’ll be a beautiful mess. Either way, we’re diving in.

Today, we’re rocking things up a bit.

Pacific Gas & Electric were one of those gloriously eclectic outfits who never felt the need to stay in a single lane. Blues, soul, rock, gospel — they stirred it all together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their very first 45, a cover of Wade in the Water, is a perfect example. They take that spiritual standard and give it a gospel‑bluesy, soulful rock approach that feels both reverent and rebellious, like a revival tent pitched right next to an amplifier stack.

It’s a cover that doesn’t just reinterpret the song — it recharges it.

The Royalettes - Close Call / Too Late

So every Saturday morning — every single one — I call my buddy to see if he’s found any garage‑sale treasures. And by “treasures,” I mean vinyl. Not priceless antiques, not rare coins… vinyl. I’m basically a truffle pig for 45s, and he’s my unpaid scout. A few weeks ago, I’m driving into town, feeling optimistic, like today is the day I find something that isn’t polka or Christmas music. I call him, and he goes, “Yeah, I hit a sale. Got some LPs.” Great! Then he says, “Oh… and I forgot to grab the 45s. The ones with weird labels. The ones you’d want.”

Now, I adore the guy, but his sense of direction is like a weathervane in a hurricane. But he tells me where the sale is — which is hilarious, because his directions are usually like, “You know that place with the thing? Turn by the other thing.” But somehow, by divine intervention or maybe just dumb luck, he’s right this time. I find the “long barn.” And when I say long, I mean this thing looks like it was built to store dinosaurs.

I walk in, and there they are: the 45s. Sitting on a table. Waiting for me. Calling to me. Whispering, “Take us home, you beautiful vinyl hoarder.” The first one on the stack practically winked at me. Naturally, I walked out with ten of them because self‑control is for people who don’t collect obscure vinyl and when you’re me, you don’t buy a record — you buy records. Plural. Many. All of them.  If there had been 200, I’d be writing this from bankruptcy court. Several of these beauties (like this one) will absolutely end up on this blog, because when the universe hands you weird records, you say thank you and take all of them.

Now, I’m expecting a soul track, right? Something smooth. Something classy. Nope. The A‑side is lo‑fi garage, featuring Joe — a man who spends the entire song bobbing and weaving to avoid commitment like he’s in a relationship dodgeball tournament. And then — THEN — he admits he doesn’t know “about the birds and the bees.” Sir. Joe. Buddy. My guy. I can already picture the enormous, goofy grin he’ll have when he finally gets the memo.