Charlie Feathers - One Hand Loose/Bottle To The Baby / Everybody's Lovin My Baby /Can't Hardly Stand it

So there here I am, minding my own business — which, let’s be honest, usually means plotting how to find time to listen to scorchers — when my brain suddenly fired off that old Doublemint gum jingle. You know the one. The twins. The smiles. The aggressively wholesome energy that absolutely did not prepare me for the memory filled unhinged road trip I am about to take.

In the spirit of “double your pleasure,” I figured, fine — let’s double it. Two Charlie Feathers 45s. Two absolute Rockabilly monsters. Two slabs of wax so well‑loved you are happy they play nicely. They don't make vinyl this durable anymore that is for sure.

Now, I can’t remember when as in date I picked them up — the years blur together when you’ve spent all your adult life elbow‑deep in cardboard boxes of 45s — but I remember exactly how I picked them up.

Picture it: 15, maybe 20 years ago. I spot a Craigslist ad from a guy in Rockingham, NC selling records. Rockingham. Two plus hours away. A normal person would’ve said, “Eh, maybe next time.” Me? I make arrangements with the seller, take the next day off and said, “Let me grab my keys.”

But then — plot twist — I see another listing from a woman in Fayetteville which is on the way. She’s got a tub of 45s. A tub. That’s collector catnip. So I arrange to meet her at a Cracker Barrel on the way like it’s some kind of vinyl‑smuggling rendezvous. She pops open her trunk, and boom: A tub full of 45's and since the price was so low I hand over the $ without looking at them and put the tub in the back seat under a blanket. It was summer and I don't want vinyl soup. Later I go through the tub and find these two Charlie Feathers originals are staring at me like they’ve been waiting for me their whole lives.

Well loved. Well played. Well worth the detour.

Then I bought the Rockingham records. Then I took myself on a little roundabout tour of every shop within striking distance because once you’re in the zone, you’re in the zone.

And what I ended up with — what I’m holding here — are, I’m pretty sure, Charlie’s first two King 45s. Everybody’s Lovin’ My Baby. Can’t Hardly Stand It. One Hand Loose. Bottle to the Baby. Artifacts from a time when attitude wasn’t optional — it was the entire point.

These aren’t just records. They’re proof that sometimes the universe rewards your chaos.

One Hand Loose/Bottle To The Baby

 Everybody's Lovin My Baby /Can't Hardly Stand it

The Allen Bradley Quintet - Space Race /Slow Rock

I like to start my mornings the same way any reasonable person would: wandering the neighborhood with Cooper while listening to Coast to Coast AM on my headphones like some kind of suburban conspiracy monk. Thanks to Sirius FM, I get to restart the show just as it’s ending — which feels a little like cheating time, but I’ll allow it.

If you’ve ever listened to that show, you know it’s basically a rotating buffet of conspiracies, supernatural, health topics and all things Space. Aliens, UFOs, interdimensional cousins, cosmic hitchhikers, crop circles (last night's show) — the whole celestial cast. And bless their hearts, some of these guests truly believe the government is sloooowly “disclosing” alien contact. As in: any day now, the folks who can’t even disclose what’s in a budget report are going to hand us the cosmic truth on a silver platter. Sure. Right after they alphabetize Area 51.

Disclosure? Please. It’s Deception with a capital D, and they’ve been running that program since Roswell was just a twinkle in someone’s classified file. If there is an Area 51 — or Area 52, or Area 867‑5309 — they’re not sharing squat. But we keep trying, because humans are nothing if not persistent little space‑groupies.

Do I believe there’s life elsewhere in the universe? Absolutely. The universe is massive — absurdly massive — and I refuse to believe God looked at billions of galaxies and said, “Nah, one species is enough.” Especially when we humans have spent thousands of years being… well, predictable. And obviously embarrassing.

We’ve always been obsessed with space. Stars guided our travel, our calendars, our myths — basically everything except our ability to stop losing socks in the dryer. WWII kicked technology into overdrive, and suddenly we were flinging ourselves off the planet like, “Let’s see what’s out there!” Naturally, music followed. Because if humans are going to explore the cosmos, we’re bringing a soundtrack.

Enter the Allen Bradley Quintet in the late ’50s, capitalizing on the Space Race and the birth of rock. But honestly? My favorite part of this disc isn’t even the music — it’s the label. Specifically, the fact that Jose Duarte demanded credit for the sound effects. You just know he said, “I’ll help, but my name better be on that label. Don’t play with me.”

And then — the cherry on top — I managed to dig up an old Okeh sleeve from my boxes. Nothing like matching a space‑themed 45 with a vintage sleeve to make the universe wink at you.

So buckle up, strap on your helmet, and race to the moon with me. Take me to your "leader" but try to do it voluntarily and not via abduction on the way. And if we do meet an Alien Leader out there, fingers crossed they’re smarter and more peaceful than the ones we’ve currently got running the show.

Hi Way Que C's - Conditions Of The World / Going To See The King

Sometimes I take weeks of preparation for these posts, little nudges and breadcrumbs long before I sit down to write. And then sometimes—like today—it’s an hour before posting, and the story arrives exactly when it’s meant to. This is one of those hour‑before blessings.

I shared a Hi Way Que C’s 45 a little over two years ago, and now I’m finally circling back to another one. What a remarkable testimony this group carries: more than seventy years of singing, serving, and staying rooted. Founded in 1945, touched by voices like Sam Cooke, Lou Rawls, Roscoe Robinson, and Johnnie Taylor—names that echo through American music like scripture through a sanctuary.

One story stopped me in my tracks: in 1949, on their first tour with Sam, they ran out of gas and money on the way to Detroit. So they sent Sam out to sing with a hat in hand, and people filled that hat until the tank—and the journey—could continue. There’s something holy in that image: a young Sam Cooke singing roadside, provision arriving through strangers, the road opening again. A reminder that sometimes God sends help in the simplest, most unexpected ways.

And then there’s Spencer Taylor Jr., called by some the Godfather of Quartet Music. He joined in 1956 and led the group faithfully until his passing nearly a year ago, at the “young old” age of 97. I read he was still touring in his 90s—still carrying the Gospel, still lifting people’s spirits, still doing the work he was called to do. While others crossed over into mainstream pop, soul and funk, Spencer stayed anchored in the music of praise. A life lived in service, in devotion, in purpose.

This record isn’t just a 45—it’s a piece of a long, steady walk with God. A walk taken by men who sang through hardship, through joy, through decades of change, and never lost sight of the One they were singing for.

Velvet Illusions - Acid Head/She Was The Only Girl

Sometimes online auctions go sideways, and sometimes they go full clown car. A few years back I shelled out way too much money for some lots of 45s from a guy who absolutely stiffed me with Grade‑A, FDA‑approved garbage. And yes, yes, I know — buyer beware, especially when you’re dealing with some mystery dude whose profile picture looks like it was taken with a potato.

So there I am, staring at two boxes of pure, uncut crap — the kind of crap that definitely did not match the picture he posted. I’m talking “this was photographed in a parallel universe” levels of mismatch. The picture the seller posted was a Velvet Illusion — all smooth, dreamy, and whispering, “Look at me, I’m flawless.” But the records received were the gritty reminder of how people can be crooked. Honestly, the records were stuff into 3 boxes with no care, and the boxes had rips, open areas where records sloshed around, and it was a wonder nothing fell out or were smashed to smithereens. It was the kind of purchase where collectors should get hazard pay. At least I got a partial refund. But buried in that landfill of disappointment was… a gem. A real one. The kind of record that makes you blink twice and wonder if the vinyl gods accidentally smiled on you while you weren’t looking.

Now, you might ask, “Well hey, doesn’t that make the whole thing worth it?” And honestly? No. Not really. Because it wasn’t about the money — it was about not wanting to be taken advantage of by someone who clearly was out to take advantage of others. He sure doesn't know records. If he did know records, he would’ve yanked that gem out of the box so fast it would’ve left a cartoon dust cloud.

But here’s the kicker: I’m an ethical person. Painfully ethical. The kind of ethical where I want everyone else to meet me at my moral altitude, even though half the world is still wandering around the basement like thugs. So yes — I guess I’m naïve. I walk into these situations expecting honor, integrity, and maybe a little common sense, and instead in this case I get a dude selling me boxes of vinyl compost.

At least the gem survived the journey. And at least I can laugh about it now… mostly.

The Dynamic Upsetters - Try Me /Make Myself Clear

I slept nearly 8½ hours last night, which feels medically suspicious. My body is clearly trying to send me a memo titled “Sit Down, Fool, your work is taking a toll.” And despite all that sleep, I still woke up feeling like I’d been lightly run over by a mid‑sized sedan. Cooper didn’t get his morning walk, which means he spent the early hours pacing around like a disappointed personal trainer who can’t believe his client skipped leg day.

It’s been another long, long week of work — the kind of week where you start fantasizing about taking a full seven days off just to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until your brain reboots. I need rest. I need recuperation. I need to be gently placed in a hammock and left there until further notice.

Yesterday was Princess Pussface’s vet day, which she took about as well as you’d expect from a cat who believes any enclosed space is a government conspiracy. The last time she went, the vet staff declared her “a regular Tasmanian Devil,” which surprised me because she is, in fact, the sweetest creature alive and Cooper’s ride‑or‑die bestie. But sure, call her feral. Whatever.

So I put her in the crate, and she gave me this tragic, Victorian‑child‑in‑an‑orphanage look, like I was escorting her to the gallows. I tried to reassure her, but she was fully committed to her role as “Wronged Heroine in a Period Drama.”

Thankfully, the vet met with me instead of doing the drop‑off routine. He said the odds of her having FIP like Tazzie were astronomically low — in all his years he’s only seen three cases. He was convinced it was allergies and honestly couldn’t believe this calm, polite little fluff was the same cat who tried to reenact Mad Max: Fury Road in his office earlier this summer.

She got a shot, I got meds to give her, and we went home. She was happy. The whole house was happy. And yes — keep the prayers up for her quick recovery. Princess Pussface deserves only the best.

Now, onto the Friday Soul Post: North Carolina Modern Soul, that sits well with my morning coffee. When you find records like these, you don’t ask questions. You just hand over the money and accept your fate like a responsible adult with questionable impulse control.

Julie London - Yummy, Yummy, Yummy/Come To Me Slowly

So apparently my “day off” heard the words day off and responded, “Cute. Anyway…”

First up: the washer. A technician finally peeked inside and declared, with the confidence of a man diagnosing a spaceship, that the motherboard has gone rogue. One bad component. One. Singular. And now I get to play the thrilling game of Guess How Long This Will Take To Fix, a game with no rules, no timeline, and no prizes.

Then came the roof contractor, who arrived to give me an estimate while I stood there like a man auditioning for the role of Responsible Adult #3 in a low‑budget sitcom. Add in my domestic hubby duties and suddenly I’m basically a one‑man HGTV episode.

Princess did not visit the vet yesterday as he was offs. She’ll be dropped off this morning, hopefully without reenacting the Tazzie tear fest- we can't take any more loss. Her symptoms don’t seem quite as dramatic, but if meds are needed, Chewy has become my new discount pet pharmacy overlord. Still expensive, but at least it doesn’t require selling a kidney.

The request for Louie Louie by Julie London sent my mind spiraling straight into the memory vault. The first time I heard Julie doing Louie Louie — mind blown. Not metaphorically. I mean actual brain confetti.

And where did this life‑altering moment occur? An elevator. An elevator.

I bought it the same day I picked up Yummy Yummy Yummy, which means my brain was double‑detonated in one afternoon. I’ve even got a German import of the Yummy Yummy LP sitting around like a neglected treasure chest. I really need to pull that out again and give it a spin.

I still wonder what Julie thought when someone handed her that track list. Probably something like: “Wait… you want me to sing what now?”

updated Louie Louie

 https://poppacool.blogspot.com/2010/10/julie-london-louie-louie.html

John Day - You're A Big Boy Now/New World In The Morning

I warned everyone: no suggestions means I might go rogue. And here we are — though honestly, this isn’t even weird by my standards. I stumbled across this locally released 70s album, complete with an autograph, which feels like finding buried treasure if the treasure also smells faintly of attic insulation. It’s packed with some surprisingly cool cover versions, and I pulled out two: a John Sebastian tune and Roger Whittaker’s New World in the Morning.

Now, confession time — the kind whispered behind a hand like you’re telling state secrets. Growing up, my parents liked Roger Whittaker. And I’ll admit it: New World in the Morning hits me right in the nostalgia. It’s one of those songs that sneaks up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and suddenly you’re eight years old again, sitting in a living room where the furniture was somehow both brown and orange. John’s version on this album? I really like it. It’s got that warm, lived‑in feel, like someone singing from the porch at sunrise.

Meanwhile, today is shaping up to be a three‑ring circus. The washing machine repairman is supposed to show up — Monday was a bust because his truck broke down, which feels metaphorically on‑brand for my life lately. I’ve also got a guy coming to look at the roof, because apparently the house has decided it wants attention too. And then there’s Princess… she’s acting odd, and I need to call the vet. Please send her all the good thoughts, prayers, cosmic vibrations, whatever you’ve got. We cannot take another loss. Not now. Not again.

Some days the music is the only thing that feels steady. Today might be one of those days.