Wild Bill and and the Blue Denims - Mona My Love

My back has been as stiff as a surfboard lately — the kind you wax once and immediately regret. I’m doing the stretches, the exercises, and I finally retired my worn‑out work chair, which had all the ergonomic support of a milk crate. I put my new chair together yesterday, and while it’s definitely not the Cadillac of office thrones, I’m hoping the ride won’t leave me shaped like a question mark. I’ve spent enough years hunched over keyboards to qualify as punctuation; I’d prefer this chair not finish the job.

Monday Surf Question: When did surf music actually come crashing onto the shore?  Wiki claims 1958, which means this 1959 rocker sits right at the dawn of the wave — the primordial ooze of reverb, twang, and teenage bravado. Even if Gone Records was based out of New York, surf music didn’t care about geography; it cared about attitude, echo chambers, and whether your guitar sounded like it was trying to outrun a shark.

This appears to be the one and only release from Wild Bill and the Blue Denims — a band name that already sounds like a denim‑clad superhero team. I’m guessing after this single they were politely escorted out of the studio, possibly for excessive reverb usage or for insisting the engineer call them “Wild Bill and the Extremely Blue Denims.”

A noble beginning. A noble end. A perfect surf career arc: show up, shred once, vanish like a wave that refuses to explain itself. 

Van Morrison - Full Force Gale

Van Morrison has built a career entirely on his own terms — mostly by ignoring everyone else’s terms, shredding them, and then setting the scraps on fire while humming a mystical Celtic melody. But Van? Van just is. There’s a whole Van Morrison aesthetic that shows up across his albums: that majestic, mystical, “I have communed with the ancient spirits of Belfast and they gave me a saxophone” vibe. The musical extravagance, the lyrics that make you think deep thoughts you didn’t plan on having such as “Wait, am I supposed to be enlightened right now?”— it’s all part of the gravitational pull.   

So imagine my face when I looked at his ’70s discography and realized those albums — the ones containing absolute classics  — never grazed the US top 10. How did Wavelength or St. Dominic’s Preview not chart higher? Did the charts get lost? Did someone accidentally file Van under “Mystical Weather Events” instead of “Music”? Was FM radio too busy blasting songs about trucks, heartbreak, and questionable fashion choices?

He’s had three US top‑10 albums since 2008 — and I’ll confess, I don’t own them and haven’t heard them. Which means I’m basically the guy yelling “Justice for Van!” while simultaneously contributing nothing to the cause, -I’m part of the problem, but let’s not dwell on that.

And yes, he defiantly (correct spelling, correct attitude, correct level of eyebrow lift) was not a singles artist. Case in point: this weeks mail‑order arrival — a single I genuinely thought I already owned, proving once again that my memory is basically a block of Swiss cheese left out in the sun. I have no idea how Warner Brothers thought this track was going to chart. Don’t get me wrong — it’s fantastic, with those trademark vocals that sound like he’s simultaneously preaching, philosophizing, and gently reminding your soul that it hasn’t done its spiritual homework.

But if you were around in the late ’70s, you remember FM radio. And FM radio was… not this. Not even close. Throw in the spiritual angle and the thing sank faster than a cinder block tied to a crooked politician who thought he could swim his way out of trouble.

Majestic? Absolutely. Brilliant? Without question. Chart‑friendly? Only if the charts suddenly decided to embrace transcendental mysticism, powered enlightenment and the general vibe of a man who refuses to be rushed.

The Byrds - My Back Pages/Renaissance Fair

The Byrds do Dylan better than Dylan — and yes, I say that as someone who genuinely loves Dylan, harmonica wheeze and all. But those Byrds harmonies and chiming, cathedral bell guitars that jangle like a choir of caffeinated angels tapping on mason jars! During this era, the Byrds weren’t just good — they were operating at a level where the laws of physics politely stepped aside.

Even with Gene Clark leaving — which was basically the musical equivalent of losing your star songwriter, your emotional ballast, and the one guy who remembered where the car was parked — they still soared. And then there’s Crosby. Ah yes, Crosby. The eternal philosophical question: Was this the beginning of Crosby becoming Crosby, or was Crosby always Crosby and simply waiting for the right cosmic alignment to unleash maximum Crosby? You know exactly what I mean. The man was a walking personality eclipse and supernova. A chaos elemental with a harmony fetish.

Chart wise, the Byrds came out swinging with two #1 singles and then… promptly decided that was enough chart success for one lifetime. No more top 10s, only seven top 40 hits, and a reputation as “not really a singles band,” which is a travesty of cosmic proportions. Some of those singles should’ve been massive — like “My Back Pages,” which stalled at #30, probably because the public thought the Byrds were running a Dylan cover subscription service.

But the B side? Oh, the B side. Crosby and McGuinn cooked up a gem so good it should’ve come with a warning label. One of the finest Byrds tracks ever — the kind of song that makes you wonder why the charts didn’t simply apologize and start over.

Album wise, they had two top 10 LPs (one being a greatest hits, which feels like cheating, but we’ll allow it) and nine top 40 albums. And those early records? Some of the most beautifully crafted albums you’ll ever hear — shimmering, inventive, and absolutely bulletproof.

I still get geeky about chart positions — a side effect of early collecting days when Billboard numbers felt like sacred scripture — but in the end, it’s always the music. The charts can say whatever they want. The Byrds already wrote their legacy in 12 string ink and filed it under “We Told You So.”

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Ray Rivera - Bend Me Shape Me

Saturday morning, I embark on my heroic quest to retrieve my lawn mower — the mighty grass‑slayer that the repair shop has allegedly reassembled in the correct order this time. May it have a sharpened desire to maul grass. 

While I’m at it, I’m trying to convince my wife that this is the perfect excuse for a date night. You know: “Hey babe, want to eat food someone else cooked and a Movie?” Maybe even pretending we’re people who go out after 7 PM.” I’m pitching it as “community engagement,” which sounds noble enough that she might fall for it.

Meanwhile, Friday Soul is serving up Latin Boogaloo, and this week’s selection is basically the multiverse of cover songs. A cover… of a cover… of a cover… of a cover. At this point the song has had more reincarnations than a Buddhist housecat.

If the timeline is to be believed (and honestly, it reads like someone spilled a stack of 45s and tried to reassemble history from memory), the Outsiders kicked things off in 1966, The Models jumped in during July ’67, the American Breed made it a hit in December ’67, and Amen Corner in January 68 and finally Ray got around to it in March ’68. Truly, this tune has lived a life of chaotic glory.

Ray’s wiki page claims he co-wrote it, but there’s absolutely zero evidence of that — unless “co-writing” means “standing vaguely near Scott English while he cowrote it.” And yes, Scott English is the same guy who wrote Mandy, which means he’s responsible for both Barry Manilow’s first mega-hit and this hydra. So yes, the man who gave the world Mandy also unleashed this eclectic Rock and Boogaloo beast

So please enjoy this Latin Boogaloo take on a song that has been bent, shaped, folded, spindled, reissued, misattributed, resurrected, and hopefully — unlike my lawn mower — assembled correctly at least once in its lifetime.

Blue Ash - Anytime At All/She's So Nice

 ‘I’m sitting here with my cup of coffee — which at this point is less a beverage and more a spiritual advisor and realizing — once again — I’ve got too many cover versions for one week. It’s like they breed when I’m not looking. So yes, August is getting another Cover Week, because apparently my life is now scheduled around rogue cover songs and less a programming choice and more a recurring geological event. No more marathon medleys, though; I’m retiring those before they retire me. Still, the mix will be good — eclectic, eccentric, and probably requiring a small emotional support beverage- might I suggest New Mexico Piñon Coffee.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a stack of 45s glaring at me from across the room like, “Buddy, you said you’d get to us.” I’m staring at the calendar, trying to sketch out a plan… a map to musical enlightenment… or at least a well organized cacophony of pleasantness. I’ll settle for pleasantness. Enlightenment feels like a stretch before 9 a.m.

Today’s offering is a 45 I picked up in Colorado Springs back in March — and of course there’s a backstory, because with me there’s always a backstory. Flashback to December 2024: we went to Colorado for Christmas to surprise Mom, and I hit a few record stores (as one does). This 45 was sitting in a bin, practically waving at me, and I… did not buy it. I told myself I’d come back later in the week, but time slipped away like a drummer who didn’t show up for rehearsal.

Fast‑forward to March: I return, dig through the bins, and it’s GONE. Missing. Abducted. Ascended. But then I notice the owner had moved some 45 bins, and there it was — waiting for me like a cosmic prank. This time I didn’t hesitate. I lunged. I pounced. I became the apex predator of the record store. I may have hissed. I cannot confirm.

Which brings me to today’s burning question: were the Beatles fashionable in 1974–75? Blue Ash apparently thought so. Sure, the solo Beatles were all over the radio, but I don’t remember hearing much actual Beatles. Then again, I was just discovering rock and roll from the school bus radio, and they were definitely not playing Blue Ash. Honestly, looking back I am not sure they were playing much cool music at all. Don’t get me wrong — plenty of fantastic stuff from that era still lives on my playlist — but music was already barreling down the disco highway, and that particular exit is not one I take unless forced by circumstance or hostage situation.

Blue Ash might make another appearance here someday, if the record cosmos decide to open up the cosmic causeways and drop a 45 from my want list directly into my hands. I’m ready, universe. I’ve got shelf space. Probably. Maybe. Let’s not check.

 

Soul Asylum- Standing In The Doorway/James At 16 (Heavy Medley)

I recently “misplaced” this record, which is my polite way of saying it yeeted itself into the void and refused to answer texts. But it finally found its way back to its proper location. And where was it, you ask?

Oh, buckle up.

Months ago, I pulled my Soul Asylum 12" singles out to record, and apparently this one decided to go on a spiritual journey. I had a couple of Love LPs on the shelf with my 12” singles, so naturally I moved the Love records to the shelf behind my office desk. Fast forward to last week: I’m browsing that shelf for something to spin, and suddenly—There it is. Soul Asylum, sandwiched between two Love LPs like the world’s most unlikely ménage à trois. A configuration so improbable it could destabilize the moral fabric of a small town. This is why you never underestimate vinyl. One minute it’s alphabetized and behaving, the next it’s sneaking off to have a torrid affair with Arthur Lee’s back catalog.

But back to Wednesday’s 12" single presentation? Worth the price of admission — if I charged admission, which I don’t, because then I’d have to hire ushers, and they’d unionize, and suddenly I’m testifying before Congress about why my record collection has labor disputes.

The A side is, of course, a Soul Asylum original — no mystery there. But the cover version chaos kicks in the moment they decide, “Hey, what if we just… mashed half the record store together and called it a medley?” It’s the kind of arrangement that probably made the lawyers sit bolt upright, spill their coffee, and immediately start a group chat titled “ROYALTY NIGHTMARE — URGENT.”

They open with a nod to their hometown hero Prince — because of course who would expect that— and then, without warning, they swerve straight into Velvet Underground, then yank the wheel again and crash through The Godfathers territory. When the forensic audio dust finally settles, it turns out you’ve mashed together so many bands that the lab techs have started a betting pool. There are Eagles harmonies flapping around the evidence room, Ted Nugent riffs charging at anyone holding a clipboard, and Gang of Four rhythms staging a tiny revolution in the corner. If you tried to list every group involved, you wouldn’t be writing liner notes — you’d be drafting a manuscript the size of Minnesota, complete with a map, a glossary, and a warning that says “Do not attempt this medley at home.” It’s like they made a playlist, shook it like a snow globe, and recorded whatever fell out.

Wicked. Absolutely wicked.

Colin Blunstone - Tracks Of My Tears

Sliding into Tuesday felt like it needed a little elegance, so I queued up Colin Blunstone’s smooth‑as‑fresh‑pavement cover of Tracks of My Tears. One of the all‑time great songs — the kind you can’t even hum without accidentally feeling profound — and the voice of the Zombies does exactly what you expect: floats in like a polite ghost and makes everything sound expensive.

I could have done without that drum track, which arrives like someone in the studio said, “Hey, should we add something that absolutely no one asked for?” But Blunstone’s vocals more than make up for it. He could sing a grocery list and still make you rethink your dinner plans. A classy Tuesday glide, minor percussion crimes notwithstanding.