Frances Nero- Keep On Loving You

The invoice from the roofing company arrived, and I braced for the usual financial ambush. Instead, the number was only a polite nudge above the original quote. They’d had to perform some emergency surgery on a few rafters and replace a stretch of vinyl siding that had clearly been plotting its escape for years. Yet they didn’t treat the extras like an open bar. Refreshing honesty in a trade that often treats “change order” as a blood sport.

Cold weather is rolling in this weekend, which is less than ideal timing as I try to reclaim the man cave. Thankfully I never committed the classic bachelor-pad error of installing a couch or any serious lounging infrastructure. Had I done so, this would have been a genuine crisis rather than a mild inconvenience. I didn’t need a clubhouse; I needed a functional room that wouldn’t judge me for its current state of chaos.

Storage is the next act. There’s a folding table in there that once served as mission control for sorting records. It’s time to fold it up and roll in a few of those sturdy, wheeled wire racks from Sam’s Club—the same ones already proving their worth upstairs. They’ll handle the 45s and CDs with quiet competence. The albums, those gloriously oversized divas, are headed for a future of plastic tubs. Many, many tubs.

A few weeks ago I mentioned rediscovering a 45 I’d been forced to surrender twenty-five years earlier when my wife went on disability and cash became more important than catalog completeness. I always assumed it would surface again someday. I just didn’t expect “someday” to require a quarter-century of patience. A few other long-lost singles still haunt the want list.

What surprised me most about this particular issue is the sheer number of versions that exist. Motown’s subsidiary clearly threw everything at the wall trying to get radio to bite. Radio responded with the same enthusiasm Cooper shows toward his heartworm pill. This copy is an especially rare promo—same song on both sides, yet mysteriously free of the usual promotional markings. They tried. Bless their determined little hearts. And they had every reason to try.

Because Frances Nero’s record is pure choice. Sharp, soulful, and inexplicably neglected. Some records deserve better than the industry gave them. This is one of them.

Phiip D'Arrow - Night School

I take chances on Polydor records from this era because, frankly, Polydor took chances on artists. Just look at The Jam. Commercial success wasn't always part of the equation, but they often released records that were a lot more interesting than the charts suggested. This one went nowhere, but it's a cool little 45.

Listening to it reminded me of my graduate school days. Between work and studying, I often felt like I was attending night school, except nobody handed out hall passes and the homework never ended.

Speaking of taking chances, I mentioned that yesterday I was heading out to dig through the inventory of a record store that closed its doors back in 2008. I had not been there in over a year and when I arrived, the owner greeted me with what should have been recognized immediately as a dangerous sentence:

"I hope you brought lots of money because the more you buy, the cheaper it gets...or you can just buy it all."

It was those last seven words that made my record-collector senses start twitching.

"I doubt I could afford it all," I replied.

"You'd be surprised."

That response hit me harder than finding a mint promo copy buried in a dollar bin.

"What did you have in mind?"

I was quoted a price that wasn't unreasonable. Naturally, negotiations followed, because record collectors treat negotiating the way surfers treat waves. It's simply what we do.

And then it happened.

The next thing I knew, I'd bought everything.

Everything.

We're talking roughly 5,000 albums, many still sealed. Around 16,000 45s. At least 5,000 sealed and long out-of-print Beach, R&B, oldies, blues, and various artists CDs. Somewhere along the way common sense waved goodbye from the platform as the Crazy Train left the station.

I ended up making five trips to my entertainment man-cave shed, with at least one more trip scheduled for Saturday morning. Ironically, the man-cave shed was originally built as a peaceful refuge where I could watch college football on the big screen and spin records on the turntable. It has now evolved into what can only be described as a branch warehouse for the Library of Congress Records Division.

To make matters worse, the roofers still have a dump truck parked in my driveway while they finish the final touch-up work. Instead of backing up to unload, I had to haul box after box on a dolly. By the end, I felt less like a record collector and more like a one-man moving company specializing in obsolete formats.

The shed is now packed floor-to-ceiling with boxes. Somewhere in there are records. Somewhere in there are CDs. Somewhere in there may be undiscovered forms of life. Saturday will be devoted to creating some semblance of organization from the chaos.

Needless to say, these old bones are feeling every one of the 26,000-plus steps I logged. This morning I dragged myself out of bed and took Cooper for his walk because I knew if I didn't keep moving I'd stiffen up completely.

The good news is that I survived.

The bad news is I now own enough music to outlive several administrations, two economic cycles, and quite possibly civilization itself. If a small convention of disc jockeys, crate diggers, and music historians suddenly appears at my door, I can probably help all of them. Assuming I can locate the right box first.

Verlaines - Don't Send Me Away

On Veterans Day, I want to thank our veterans for their service and sacrifice. I never served in the Armed Forces, but many of my friends have, and they have my utmost respect. My father served in the Navy and when his enlistment ended, he came home and married my mother. It was just before Vietnam escalated, and he once told me that if he had stayed in the Navy, he would have volunteered for the patrol boats that ran the Vietnamese rivers. Whenever I think about that, I'm reminded of how dangerous, confusing, and difficult that war (or all wars for that matter) must be for the men and women who serve.

Whether we support a particular military action or not, we should always support the brave people who are asked to carry out those orders. Today, I pray for the safety of all those currently serving, remember those who never made it home, and thank every veteran who answered the call. Happy Veterans Day, and thank you for your service.

I spent part of the weekend looking for a fitting song for Veteran's Day and discovered, once again, that my record room remains an archaeological dig site disguised as a collection. Somewhere beneath the layers of vinyl, questionable filing decisions, and good intentions was undoubtedly the perfect record. Unfortunately, the best thing I found was something I'd already posted. To be fair, repeating myself is one of the few hobbies I haven't outgrown.

So instead of repeating myself, I'm going deep into the album cuts with the Verlaines.

Back in the day, anything on Flying Nun Records was enough to loosen my grip on whatever money happened to be in my wallet. I lucked into this LP during one of those magical record-store liquidation sales in Denver. The place was going out of business, and boxes of albums were stacked everywhere at prices that now seem like a fever dream. I carried home armloads of records, including this one, feeling like I had somehow beaten the system.

Of course, what I really beat was my future self.

If I had a time machine, I wouldn't use it to alter history, prevent disasters, or buy stock in Apple. I'd go straight back to that Denver record store with cash stuffed in every pocket and buy every last box in sight. It's not a noble use of time travel, but at least I'm honest about it. History would remain unchanged, but my record shelves would be magnificent.

Until someone invents a time machine, though, I'll settle for this beautifully melancholy song from the Verlaines. Some records don't just remind you of the past. They remind you of the opportunities (stacks of Songs the Cramps Taught Us series) you left sitting in a cardboard box with a $1 price tag.

Roy Hall - Three Alley Cats/Diggin The Boogie

Tuesday means rockabilly, cats, and cool wax...and man, this one absolutely smokes. I snagged it in Pueblo, Colorado back in March as part of that killer haul where the shipping bill practically challenged the purchase price to a duel. Worth every penny, daddy-o.

Roy Hall, born James Faye Hall, took the name Roy in honor of his brother, who tragically died in an auto accident. From everything I've read, Hall seemed like the kind of wild character who didn't just walk into a room, he made the room hang on for dear life.

And as I've said before, Three Alley Cats/Diggin' The Boogie is pure jet fuel. The kind of record that leaps out of the grooves, grabs you by the lapels, and demands you pour another cup of coffee and flip it over one more time.

I've got tomorrow off and have arranged a little crate-digging excursion at a former shop I haven't visited in over a year. Logic says I've already turned over every stone, every sleeve, and every dusty corner in the place. But veteran record hounds know better. Records are sneaky creatures. The one you've been searching for is usually hiding right where you've already looked three times, just waiting to wink at you and say, "Took you long enough, cool cat."

The Five-Hundreds - Run Little Rabbit/Wheel's Last Ride

Hot Rod Monday with a one-off single from the Five-Hundreds. It's been a hot minute since I've uploaded a hot rod song, but honestly, I could have done without the clown horn. What were they thinking? Probably the same thing I was thinking at 2 a.m. while staring at the ceiling: "This is ridiculous."

That said, I can handle a clown horn every day of the week. Insomnia is the real menace. I eventually drifted back to sleep, only to wake up at 6 a.m. moving in slow motion. Poor Cooper got cheated out of his walk. After my shower, I felt lucky just to make it to the coffee pot. If I owned a coffee IV machine, it'd be set to full drip.

Maybe Rabbit from "Run Rabbit Run" could take Cooper for a walk instead. Bobby Darin wrote the song, but I have to wonder... was the clown horn his idea, or did that bit of musical mischief sneak into the studio after midnight when everyone was running on fumes and coffee?

The Holy Lights of Baltimore Md - Hard Times/It's Getting Late

Yesterday felt like one of those record-collector days where life decides to throw a few surprises your way.

A friend last week had given me the number of a woman who wanted to sell her late father’s 45s, so I arranged to meet her yesterday morning. Of course, as I'm heading out the door, the roofing crew shows up to finish my roof. After only five and a half days, I think they were as happy to see the end of the job as I was.

Before meeting the lady, I had seen a yard sale listed that was just outside of town advertising albums. Record collectors know the drill: if you aren't early, you're late. I got there and found three large boxes of LPs plus another stack sitting off to the side. The seller casually says, "They're a dollar apiece."

Now you're speaking my language.

The first few records I pulled were older jazz LPs, so a pile started forming immediately. Digging through the boxes uncovered plenty of jazz and soul titles, but then I got to the separate stack. Black Gospel albums. All of them. One was even on my beloved Peacock label, which pretty much guaranteed it was coming home with me.

I moved the stack aside and started counting. The seller watched me and asked, "You really want those gospel albums?"

Ah...YES. Yes, I do.

By the time the dust settled, I walked away with 75 LPs for $60. That's the kind of math record collectors understand without needing a calculator.

Then I met the woman with the 45s. After looking through them, I found only one record I wanted. She told me to just take it. I offered her $ as I don't like to take things for free, but she replied, "I'm a woman who, once I've made up my mind, that's that, and I won't take the money."

At that point there is only one acceptable response:

"Yes, ma'am."

The roof crew finally wrapped up, and I spent the rest of the day recording some newly acquired songs, including this morning's selection, and attempting the impossible task of organizing my record room. I even managed to get a few artists filed properly before getting distracted by another discovery: Halloween records.

Apparently I've accumulated enough spooky 45s to program Halloween music for the next several decades. Good thing, because the records keep finding me faster than I can file them.

Today's record comes from The Holy Lights of Baltimore, Maryland, often listed simply as The Holy Lights. The cogs of Dis has this as a 1979 reissue of a 1974 recording. While digging, I run across Savoy 45s all the time, but every once in a while one follows me home and reminds me why I keep crawling through dusty boxes in the first place. The thrill of the hunt is real, and yesterday it paid off in gospel, jazz, soul, and a free 45 from a lady who clearly wasn't interested in negotiating with record collectors.  

The Reactors - She's A Queen/Please Tell Me

Virginia garage rock that I found in one of my mystery boxes a few weeks ago. I'm pretty sure this one came from a trade with my friend Doug. He's got thousands of records and a serious love for old country music, so every so often we meet up and swap. There are no negotiations, no inspections, no "approval process." I usually haul him mountains of records I don't care about, and he hands me a few tubs or boxes in return. It's vinyl roulette, and honestly, that's half the fun.

Sometimes the boxes are full of things that make me wonder if we've both suffered temporary lapses in judgment. Other times I pull out something like this and suddenly feel like I still owe him another truckload.

We were supposed to meet last Sunday, but Doug forgot and only had one small tub ready so I happily traded 7 boxes worth I brought and agreed to return this Sunday. In the tub he gave me were more good ones so I've already started gathering up another pile for him. Truthfully, when treasures like this show up in the trade, I always feel like I should do more on my end.

And while you're reading this, I'd appreciate a prayer for Doug. He's dealing with some health issues, and I firmly believe in the power of prayer. Pray for healing, strength, and better days ahead.

The Reactors were from Virginia and released 2 45s, one of which was picked up by Cameo. I could swear I own that one too, but apparently it's hiding from both me and the database. "She's A Queen" has that wonderful 1965 garage sound, while the flip side, "Please Tell Me," is exactly the kind of slow, moody garage melancholy that gets permanently lodged in my brain. In other words: a freaking fantastic double-sided 45.

I couldn't find much information on the band. Like so many garage groups, they probably (a)blazed (cute..right!) brightly for a brief moment, cut a few records, and vanished into obscurity. But sixty years later, one of their records is sitting on my turntable because of a forgotten trade, one generous friend, and the strange magic of cardboard boxes full of unknown records. That's garage collecting in a nutshell. Sometimes you're digging through a pile of ordinary records. Sometimes you're shaking hands with history.