The Scott Sisters - Down On My Knees/I Don't Know Why

Some Modern Soul Gospel for this fine Sunday morning. This single was the second of three 45s these sisters released, and then the world heard nothing more from them — which is a genuine loss. An internet search turns up almost nothing; one deep‑dive even described them as belonging to “an era of ghost histories in American Gospel.”

During that search, Google noted that “During the 1960s and 1970s, hundreds of local church ensembles and sibling groups pressed private, small‑batch 45 RPM singles. Because these were distributed strictly to church congregations or sold directly from the stage, personal details like their given first names, exact birth dates, and occupations were never documented by music journalists.”

The label may be modest, but the music is not. These songs are magnificent — the kind of work that deserved a wider world than the one it reached.

Rising Suns - Concentration / Land of 1000 Dances

I picked this one up in that small find I wrote about last month — the one where my friend gave me directions so bad I’m still convinced he was trying to send me into a cornfield or a portal to 1973. Somehow, despite his “expert” guidance (“turn left at the mailbox that used to be there”), I actually found the yard sale and the stack of 45s. And not just one — two copies of this bad boy. This one with nice labels, one with label damage, like it had survived a minor bar fight. Classic yard‑sale energy.

I knew it was going to be a good one. “Concentration” hits that moody garage sweet spot — the kind where the band sounds like they recorded it in a basement lit by one flickering bulb that looked ready to give up at any moment, like even the electricity wasn’t sure the band would make it through the take. Then they flip the script and do a rave‑up version of Land of 1000 Dances, because apparently they woke up that morning and chose chaos.

The Cogs of Dis write‑up? Oh, it’s a whole novella. These guys were originally from Topeka, Kansas, touring as the Rising Suns, until fate said, “Nope,” and they had a bus accident so catastrophic it wiped out everything: transportation, instruments, sound equipment, stage clothes — probably even the drummer’s emergency stash of “you know what”.

They disbanded on the spot, which honestly feels fair. If the universe deletes your entire band in one swoop, you take the hint.  But the management company? Oh, they said, “We have shows booked, we are NOT losing deposits,” and immediately hired another Kansas band, slapped the name Rising Suns on them, and sent them back on the road like nothing happened.

They are considered to be one of the Midwest’s first interracial soul bands — fronted by “Big” Walter Downing (brother of "Big" Al Downing and Izzy Martin. And here’s the kicker: They toured until 1972. On the strength of a live show as they only had one 45. One. Single. Record. That’s not a career — that’s a magic trick.

After the dust settled, several members went on to join The Undisputed Truth, because apparently the Rising Suns pipeline leads directly into psychedelic soul.

Then in 2007, both versions — the OG Rising Sons and the replacement Rising Suns — were inducted into the Kansas Music Hall of Fame, which is honestly the most Kansas thing ever. “You know what? Everyone gets a trophy.”

And now I’ve got two of their probably 500‑pressed little artifacts sitting in my collection like a tiny piece of garage soul mythology.

Bobby Freeman - Everybody's Got A Hang Up / Oughta Be A Law

The Bobby Freeman songs I grew up hearing on the radio were the big, shiny, respectable Top 10 hits — Do You Want to Dance and C’mon and Swim — the ones that get invited to weddings and grocery‑store playlists. But you never hear this funky little troublemaker. And of course it’s a raver, because Bobby didn’t really do “subtle.”

Everybody’s Got a Hang Up managed to claw its way up to #122 on the Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “We like your enthusiasm, kid, but you’re not getting into the club tonight.” And the B‑side? Oughta Be a Law — which feels like Bobby himself filing a complaint with the chart police about that #122 placement.

I picked this one up about a year ago and, in classic fashion, am just now getting around to spinning it. Bobby, meanwhile, moved from record label to record label with the frequency most of us change underwear — though honestly, Bobby might’ve changed labels more often.

I posted one of his other 45s before — probably my favorite — and I found that one in one of the most magnificent buys of my entire vinyl‑hoarding career. The kind of score that makes you feel like the universe briefly smiled at you and said, “Here, champ. You earned this.”

And yes… I am overdue for another big score. The vinyl gods know it. Cooper knows it. Even Princess Rian probably knows it.

Lynn Hope - Body And Soul/Sands of The Sahara

The morning ritual: Cooper drags you through the muggy streets like he’s training for the Iditarod, you shower off the humidity, slam enough coffee to wake the ancestors, and settle in for a little Lynn Hope detective work.

Before the detective work, it’s the spinning that’s the first step — the sacred initiation rite of the record‑obsessed. Picking up an early King 45 is basically spinning a musical roulette wheel: will it be R&B? A country hillbilly bopper? Jazz? A novelty record about “Mussolini Laid His Pistol Down?" Who knows! King Records was chaos with a catalog number. I honestly was expecting a female country singer named Lynn… and the record basically stood up, adjusted its turban, and said, “Absolutely not.” That’s the King Records experience in a nutshell. 

Sometimes you just need some sweet jazz — the kind that slides into your morning like it’s wearing silk pajamas and refusing to hurry. So when the A side turned out to be slow‑burn sax bliss, it felt like winning the vinyl lottery. That syrupy early‑jazz tone? Pure velvet. It drifted right into the same emotional neighborhood as Say It (Over and Over Again) — my favorite Coltrane track from “Ballads” and the sonic equivalent of staring out a rainy window while contemplating your choices for today.

The B‑side didn’t just play — it transported. One second you’re flipping a King 45, the next you’re drifting into a dreamlike trance where Lynn Hope is gliding into camp after a long trek across the Sahara, perched atop a camel who’s clearly tired of his nonsense. The air shimmers, the sand glows, and Lynn — turban immaculate, sax slung like a talisman — is greeted by a harem that’s been waiting all afternoon, lounging like they’re in a perfume commercial that never aired because it was too sultry for television.

It’s the kind of scene that only late 50's & early 60's King jazz can conjure: half fantasy, half folklore, all saxophone‑induced mirage. The music doesn’t just play; it summons. And suddenly you’re thinking, “Yeah, this tracks. This is exactly the energy of a man who wore a turban on stage and then vanished into spiritual devotion.”

And Lynn Hope… invisible and disappearing like a genie — the kind who doesn’t bother with lamps, just vanishes in a puff of saxophone smoke. One minute he’s drifting through the B‑side like he’s serenading the desert moon, the next he’s gone, slipping out of the music business with the same elegance he slipped into a turban. No scandal, no dramatic or public exit — just poof, gone. It’s the perfect exit for a man whose tone already sounded half‑mythical: poof, no more touring, no more King Records roulette, just a quiet fade into faith and mystery. Lynn Hope didn’t bow out — he evaporated. He slipped out of the music world the same way his sax lines slipped through a room: smooth, unannounced, and leaving you wondering if he’d ever been there at all.

Turns out he converted to Islam in the 1940s and later taught the Quran in a Philadelphia mosque, which honestly feels like the most dignified “I’m done with this industry” move imaginable. No press release, no farewell tour, no dramatic last‑album‑that‑nobody‑asked‑for — just a man deciding he’d rather trade nightclub smoke for spiritual clarity. It’s the kind of exit that makes you respect him even more: Lynn Hope didn’t quit music, he ascended out of it.

Tobin Sprout - Let Go Of My Beautiful Balloon /Shirley The Rainbow

Tobin Sprout might be the unheralded silent champion of early Guided By Voices — the guy in the corner quietly painting masterpieces while Pollard is duct‑taping microphones to ceiling fans and inventing new genres by accident. And as I’ve said before, I really need to share more GBV around here. If you know (and like) Guided By Voices, then you already get it: that magical, simple, lo‑fi clatter that sounds like it was recorded in a basement, a garage, and possibly a broom closet at the same time. What a band. They have never disappointed me — not once, not even on the weird releases with cover art that looks like a ransom note.

Tobin was part of the early incarnation, really stepping into the spotlight around Propeller and Vampires on Titus. And of course his contributions to Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes are nothing to sneeze at — unless you’re allergic to brilliance. When the original group disbanded, he dropped some solo releases that are genuinely wonderful (and yes, I only have promo CDs, not vinyl, which is a situation I need to rectify before the Vinyl Gods smite me).

He came back for the reunion run, stuck around for four years, and then — in true GBV fashion — the original group disbanded again like a garage‑rock version of Groundhog Day.

What’s consistent, though, is Tobin’s melodic sense and those unmistakable vocal stylings. This 45 proves it. Let Go of My Beautiful Balloon floats along with that lo‑fi simplicity: the strumming, the vocals, the “we recorded this with whatever was within arm’s reach” charm. It’s refreshing — a palate cleanser in a world obsessed with bombastic overproduction and plugins that cost more than my first car.

Sometimes you just need something simple, honest, and a little scruffy around the edges. Tobin’s always been great at that.

Billy Crash Craddock with The Blue Notes- Birddoggin/Millionaire

I think this is officially The Week to Catch up, because I’ve started dozens of posts with pictures, sounds, vibes, and good intentions… and then promptly abandoned them like stray socks behind the dryer. I have so many unfinished posts that they’re starting to get buried like the Sphinx — majestic, mysterious, and absolutely covered in metaphorical sand. I scroll endlessly through the digital desert, discovering half-written drafts like ancient artifacts: “Oh look, a post I started in May. How quaint.” All I need now are the words — you know, the part that keeps you, my faithful followers, entertained with my gloriously irrelevant musings.

Today’s excavation brings forth another North Carolina 45, and once again, one I had zero awareness of. Enter Billy “Crash” Craddock — Greensboro’s own, and a man whose name sounds like he should be jumping cars over flaming barrels instead of singing. In the ’50s and ’60s, Billy couldn’t buy a hit in the U.S. if he showed up at the Billboard offices with a suitcase full of cash and a plate of homemade biscuits. The charts took one look at him and said, “No thanks, we’re full — try again after Elvis leaves.”

But hop across the globe to Australia, and suddenly the man was a top charter. Not just “doing okay,” but “the Aussies have decided this guy is their new national treasure.” It’s like America handed him a polite rejection letter while Australia threw him a parade, a surfboard, and possibly a kangaroo. He was huge there — like “teen idol who causes fainting” huge. Meanwhile, back home, he was still stuck in the “please notice me” aisle of the musical supermarket.

It’s one of those great music‑history quirks: sometimes you’re ignored in your own backyard, but halfway around the world, people are losing their minds over you. But then the ’70s rolled in, bell‑bottoms flapped, mustaches thickened, and suddenly Billy became a full‑blown Country Music staple. It was like America collectively woke up one morning, stretched, yawned, and said, “You know what? We do like this guy. Let’s put him everywhere.”

After years of being ignored at home and worshipped in Australia, he finally hit that sweet spot where the U.S. charts stopped playing hard to get. He went from “Who?” to “Oh yeah, that guy!” faster than you can say Grand Ole Opry. By the mid‑’70s, he was basically unavoidable — the kind of artist who’d show up on every jukebox, every radio station, and probably every roadside diner that served coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon.

It’s one of those great music arcs: Ignored→ Exported → Worshipped → Re‑Imported → Beloved. A true American boomerang.

I knew him from childhood road trips, when the parental units insisted on Country Music radio stations. Nothing says “family bonding” like being trapped in the backseat while someone croons Rub It In at you. That one was a #1 hit, as was his cover of Ruby Baby. The man basically took pop and rock songs, marched them over to the Country charts, and said, “Y’all mind if I set up camp here?” And the charts said, “Sure, buddy, pull up a chair.”

But before all that, he started out in the rockabilly trenches — as this 45 proudly demonstrates. It’s always fun when a record reminds you that even the most country-fried artists once had a pompadour dream and a guitar that needed to be slapped around a little.

Mercy- Fire Ball

This song didn’t just surprise me — it detonated. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t warned. No one handed me goggles or a helmet. Mercy, the same band responsible for the extremely polite, extremely well‑behaved Love (Can Make You Happy) — a song so gentle it could be used to soothe anxious houseplants — apparently had a B‑side that throws furniture.

Now, Mercy had two chart singles, and that A‑side hit #2, blocked from the top spot by The Beatles’ Get Back, which is honestly the most Beatles thing ever: “Oh, you wanted a #1? Cute. Good luck with that.” And Mercy still tours with the original lead singer, which is interesting and impressive and also completely irrelevant to the fact that I have owned approximately 47 copies of this 45 and never listened to the B‑side because… why would I? I knew the A‑side. It’s friendly. It’s melodic. It’s the musical equivalent of a warm handshake from a man named Harold.

So, I’m watching an online record auction — you know, the kind where the auctioneer plays a snippet of the 45 like they’re a DJ at a retirement home — and suddenly they play the B‑side. And I’m thinking: “You’re playing the wrong side, champ. Fireball is not the hit. “But then my brain goes: WHAT?! WHAT IS THIS?! WHO SWAPPED THE RECORD WHEN I WASN’T LOOKING?!

Because Fire Ball comes roaring out like Mercy suddenly decided to moonlight as a Psych band that drinks battery acid for breakfast. It’s loud, it’s wild, it’s unhinged — it’s the kind of track that makes you sit up straight and reconsider your entire filing system.

Naturally, I bid. Naturally, I won it for a buck. Naturally, I probably already have ten copies buried somewhere in my boxes, but I wasn’t taking chances. This was a spiritual awakening.

And now it’s filed in my collection, waiting for the day when I leave this earthly plane and some poor soul goes through my records and says: “Why did he keep this sappy Mercy 45 next to The Tamrons?” Flip the 45, buddy. Flip. The. 45.