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.

Hal And Jean - Hey You Standing There/Don't Tell Me Lies

The A‑side gives me shades of Mickey & Sylvia’s Love Is Strange — not a direct lift, more like the spiritual cousin that shows up uninvited to the family reunion. But let’s be honest: these two supposed lovebirds aren’t exactly setting the room on fire. Jean drifts off‑key in a way that suggests the engineer shrugged and said, “Eh, close enough,” while Hal drones along beside her with all the enthusiasm of a man reading warranty information. The chemistry? Let’s say they sound like they’re checking boxes rather than falling headfirst into passion.

And yet… somehow it grows on you. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe they’re aiming for that “we’re in love but we’ve got to play it cool” vibe — the kind of romance where the sparks are there, but both parties pretend not to notice.

But here’s the thing: sometimes the A‑side is just the polite handshake before the real introduction. Flip this sucker over and suddenly the room changes temperature. The B‑side explodes with a raw, stomping R&B declaration that practically kicks the turntable into gear: “Don’t you know I love you… Don’t tell me no lies…” This is the kind of track that makes you look around the shop to see if anyone else is hearing what you’re hearing. It’s urgent, it’s messy, it’s glorious — This isn’t polite romance anymore — this is someone pounding on the door at 2 a.m. with FEELINGS. This is passion with its hair on fire. This is the B‑side that leaps out of the sleeve, grabs you by the collar, and screams, “WHY WAS I NOT THE A‑SIDE, YOU FOOLS?”

A true lost gem, rescued from obscurity by the sacred ritual of flipping the record. Now we’re in business!

The Catalinas - Hey Little GIrl / Hey Senorita

The Catalinas seem to be the ultimate Carolina Beach Music band, and their influence is recognized through their induction into both the Beach Music Hall of Fame and the North Carolina Music Hall of Fame. You could say they are a revolving‑door institution. A band that’s been around so long and churned through so many musicians that the membership roster reads like a phone book. They’re the poster children for “we’ve had more members than some towns have residents.” Wikipedia really does list they have had 60+ musicians who’ve passed through their ranks over the decades. At that point, it’s less a band and more a musical ecosystem.

And yes, this 1961 45 on some tiny, oddball label is so obscure you’d swear it was run out of someone’s garage behind a shack in Charlotte. Exactly the kind of oddball  stuff I love digging up.

Drumptruck - Island

I figured I’d sneak another 12" single out of the vaults — one that’s been sitting there like a shy guest at the party, waiting for its moment. Sure, I could hold out for the UK 45 with the picture sleeve, but let’s be honest: that day may never arrive. Some records are destined to haunt want lists forever.

Dumptruck was a staple on my turntable in the ’80s, that jangly guitar pulling me in the way candy pulls in a kid with no adult supervision. They never hit the big time, unless you count the label they were on — and Big Time did them no favors. The label went bankrupt, meddled where it shouldn’t, and dragged the band into lawsuits they couldn’t possibly weather. A promising group undone by the very machine meant to lift them up.

Still, I’ve got those Big Time LPs, spinning in all their battered, glorious defiance.