Henry Badowski - My Face

I’m sitting in my upstairs record room, cradling a hot caffeinated life-support system and surveying what can only be described as a Category 5 Kaos Event. Boxes are everywhere. Some are stacked with purpose. Others appear to have arrived through spontaneous combustion. Archaeologists could spend decades excavating this room and still be puzzled by some of my organizational choices.

The timing, of course, is impeccable because in two weeks the roof gets replaced. I have a metal roof, and at the moment it remains a mystery whether the plywood underneath will need replacing. If it does, things could get interesting in a hurry. This room has vaulted ceilings with stained wood trim running along the sides and across the peaks at roughly five-foot intervals. And under that appears to be drywall. In other words, all sorts of decorative features designed specifically to complicate the life of an already stressed-out record collector.

My current strategy, if you can call it that, is to have the roofer take a look once they get up there and tell me whether the plywood has to go and what it will do to the drywall. If the answer is yes, I may need them to begin elsewhere while I scramble for a ladder and attempt to remove the interior wood trim before gravity and poor planning combine forces against me. If that happens I can just imagine what will happen to the drywall and there is no way I will be able to replace that myself. There are also a pair of beams on each side that I suspect are more decorative than structural, but I've been wrong before. Frequently. Spectacularly. They may need to cut around them, which is exactly the kind of sentence that raises my blood pressure.

What I envision is a tremendous amount of work being performed by a clumsy, largely untalented handyman, namely me. I've already purchased heavy plastic sheeting, and this weekend's opening act involves moving records and assorted treasures into the room next door, which mercifully lacks vaulted ceilings and the potential for roofing debris to rain down like confetti at a parade nobody wanted. I'm hopeful the mess will be minimal, but experience has taught me that home improvement projects operate under the same laws as record collecting: whatever you think will happen will be replaced by a stranger, more expensive plot twist.

To distract myself from this impending adventure in roof-based anxiety, I'm posting another wonderfully obscure record.

I've always thought I.R.S. was an interesting label. My introduction was through R.E.M., but I completely missed their earlier days when they were putting out pioneering new wave and punk releases from artists like the Buzzcocks and Henry Badowski. They were remarkably forward-thinking, bringing a lot of great UK music to American audiences long before it was fashionable. I even uploaded a 45 they released by the original Animals not too long ago (see Eric Burdon and the Animals).

I picked up both copies of today's single within the last year, and I'm fairly certain I've heard it before, probably on one of those I.R.S. compilation albums that quietly educated a generation of musical misfits. The label had a knack for slipping unusual and fascinating records into your life, and decades later I'm still discovering things they released. Which is fortunate because between the roof project and the box-filled chaos surrounding me, I need all the distractions I can get. If nothing else, when the roofers arrive, they may finally discover what lies beneath the stacks. Hopefully it's just more records and not the fossilized remains of unfinished projects from 1997.

Smithereens - Elaine

I have to admit I was surprised to discover I only have one Smithereens 45 featured on the old blog, and one I was certain I'd already posted apparently remains trapped somewhere in the vast archaeological dig that is my record collection. Rather than spend the morning excavating boxes and questioning my own memory, I pulled out a deep album cut from one of their most accessible records.

I remember hearing plenty of Smithereens songs off this LP on Modern Rock radio back in the day, but today's catchy little gem wasn't one of them. Pat DiNizio had a gift for writing songs that sounded like they should have been hits even when they weren't. He could take heartbreak, wrap it in a jangly hook, and make you want to sing along to your own emotional collapse.

In this song he opens with: "I got your letter in the mail the other day. You had to say that you were leaving me."

Well, that line landed a little too close to home.

Back in college I dated a woman, and to make a very long story short, the relationship crashed and burned with enough drama to keep a daytime soap writer employed for several seasons. Fast forward three years later and we somehow reconnect. I was living in Aurora, Colorado, she was in Loveland, and after a few visits and a lot of late night phone calls it seemed possible that maybe life was giving us an unexpected second chance.

Feeling optimistic, I invited her down to Denver to see Robin Hitchcock. Looking back, I probably spent more time planning that evening than I spent planning most major life decisions.

The night arrived. She didn't.

I called. No answer.

I called again. Still nothing.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I received a letter that absolutely shredded me from top to bottom. To say I was blindsided would be understating things by several zip codes.

I wrote back. I honestly don't remember exactly what I said, which is probably for the best. I do remember it wasn't nasty. Somewhere in the letter I wished her a wonderful life, told her I wouldn't bother her again, and then I kept that promise.

At the time it felt awful. Today it feels more like one of those strange plot twists that only make sense in the final chapter. What seemed like rejection was really redirection. A closed door I spent years trying to reopen turned out to be protecting the path I was supposed to take.

Not long afterward I met a wonderful woman, married her, and here we are 31 years later. Meanwhile, that Robin Hitchcock ticket became considerably less important than I thought it was at the time.

So while my old love wasn't named Elaine, I still think of her whenever I hear this song. And I genuinely hope she found peace, left the drama behind, and had a happy life. 

As for me, I've learned that sometimes the most valuable letter you'll ever receive is the one that convinces you to stop waiting for the wrong story to continue and start living the right one instead.

XTC - Ten Feet Tall/Helicopter/The Somnambulist

Yesterday was a complete washout. It started with waking up with a neck ache, which is always a promising sign that the day is about to become a meaningful character-building exercise. To make matters worse, there was no coffee because I had an early doctor’s appointment. Nothing says "ready to face the world" quite like dragging yourself out the door uncaffeinated.

By the time the appointment wrapped up, complete with a flu shot and blood work, my head was pounding and I felt like I had been volunteered as a human science experiment. Whatever energy I started the morning with had been extracted and carefully stored in a vial somewhere.

So I waved the white flag, took the rest of the day off, and fully committed myself to the noble art of wallowing in misery. Sometimes the universe hands you a productive day. Other times it hands you a sore neck, no coffee, a needle in each arm, and an invitation to spend the afternoon starring in your own low-budget medical drama. Yesterday was definitely the latter. So I need to start today off the right way with coffee and XTC.

XTC was one of those bands I completely fell for while attending Colorado State University. I still remember hitting a yard sale one Saturday morning and finding a guy unloading his punk 45s and albums for prices that now seem like ancient folklore. The problem was that I was a poor college student operating under the radical notion that eating food and paying rent were somehow important. Faced with such unreasonable financial responsibilities, I had to be selective. Present-day me would have swept the entire collection into my arms like a crazed record-hoarding fiend I am and worried about the consequences later.

Even with my limited budget, I managed to snag some of my first XTC singles and albums that day, which turned out to be a pretty good investment in my future musical obsession. XTC always had a knack for writing ridiculously catchy songs, and "Ten Feet Tall" is no exception. I've owned both the stock and promo copies for years, but that strange sleeve is a much more recent addition. I picked it up with a promo copy at the Colorado Springs record show back in March.

To this day, I have absolutely no idea what it is. It doesn't appear to be homemade, it doesn't match anything I've ever seen before, and my attempts at detective work have produced more questions than answers. Naturally, that made it completely irresistible. The geeky record collector portion of my brain took one look and declared, "I don't know what this is, but it's coming home with me." Sometimes the mystery is half the fun. Sometimes it's the entire reason the thing ends up in the collection.

The Church - Columbus/As You Will/Trance Ending

Happy Columbus Day! And in a shocking display of creativity, I'm celebrating by posting a song titled Columbus. I know, I know... try not to hurt yourselves following that giant leap in creative thinking. 

I've made no secret over the years of my love for The Church, and somehow it's been three long years since I've shared one of their songs here. That's probably some kind of record collector misdemeanor. 

As you can see from the Wax Trax price sticker still hanging onto the sleeve for dear life, I bought this one brand new for the princely sum of $1.88. Today that's the kind of money you find in the couch cushions and ignore. Back then, that was a major financial commitment. A purchase that required careful budgeting, soul searching, and approximately three trips around the record store to make sure there wasn't something even cooler lurking in the import bin.

The original lineup remains my favorite era of The Church: Steve Kilbey, Marty Willson-Piper, Peter Koppes, and Richard Ploog. To my ears, Columbus captures the band firing on all cylinders. The guitars shimmer and swirl like sunlight bouncing off a freshly cleaned record, and Kilbey sounds more confident and commanding than ever. It's one of those tracks that reminds me why The Church occupied such a permanent residence in my turntable rotation.

In true record-collector fashion, I couldn't stop with just the stock copy. The B-sides issued around the world were scattered all over the map, and I've included those as well, except for the promo 12-inch. Naturally, after I finished recording everything, I pulled that one out too. Because record collecting is essentially an endless quest to complete something that becomes un-complete the moment you discover another variation exists.

Normal people see a song called Columbus and listen to it. Record collectors see Columbus and immediately wonder, "Yes, but which edit?" That's why our shelves are full, our wallets are empty, and our spouses look at us the same way historians look at people who claim they found Atlantis in their backyard. Yet somehow, we wouldn't have it any other way.

Rev. Otis McMillan and The Exciting Quadralaires- Can't Nobody Do Me Like Jesus/On A Mission For The King/I'm So Thankful/Gospel Ship/Christ Is The Rock

I stayed up way too late last night watching the end of the Georgia-Alabama game, so needless to say I'm moving at about the speed of a 16 RPM record (as if I have ever seen one) trying to play on a 45 RPM turntable. Thankfully, I gave myself an extra 30 minutes of sleep this morning. With rain in the forecast, Cooper was spared his usual walk, and I was spared the guilt that comes with being the human half of that arrangement.

As I sit here with my second cup of coffee, listening to the rain drumming on a roof that will be replaced in just over a week, it feels like the perfect morning for an old gospel record. Some things wear out with age, while others seem to grow richer, deeper, and more meaningful with every passing year. Today's record definitely falls into that second category. 

I've decided this week is going to lean heavily into indie and alternative sounds. Today's selection certainly qualifies. It's a rare gospel LP from Fayetteville, North Carolina, and since it wasn't released on a major label, I'm happily claiming it for the indie camp. Labels may matter to the industry, but great music answers to a higher authority.

This record found its way into my collection the same way many of my favorite discoveries do: through a combination of patience, persistence, and what I can only describe as divine crate-digging intervention.

A few years ago, I met a non record collector who had purchased at an auction the inventory from a radio station in Smithfield, North Carolina. The LPs were almost entirely white and Black gospel records, weird audio sound and commercial ditty lps, with a little country sprinkled in for seasoning. The 6,000 or so 45s were about 99% country and white gospel. When I first saw the collection, the owner wanted a mountain of cash for it. Not just any mountain, either. We are talking Titanic-size money, the kind of money that had me pricing the collection with my wallet while he was pricing it with his imagination.

I looked through the 45s, bought a few things I liked, and gently suggested that his expectations might be floating in the same waters as the Titanic. We parted on friendly terms.

A few months later, the phone rang.

Suddenly, that Titanic had hit the iceberg.

He offered me the entire collection for 99% less than his original asking price. He wanted it gone, and I was more than willing to help him accomplish that mission. So home it came.

Only later, while digging through the albums, did I discover some absolute gospel gems that I had completely overlooked during my first visit. Funny how that works. Sometimes the treasures are hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves. There may be a sermon in there somewhere.

So settle in and enjoy 18-plus minutes from Rev. Otis McMillan and The Exciting Quadralaires, an extraordinarily obscure North Carolina jewel that, through a little patience and perhaps a touch of providence, eventually found its way into my collection 

 

The Poor Little Rich Kids - She's The Best Girl In Town / Stop-Quit It

Happy Saturday! Today I'm spelunking through the deep abyss of the collection, shining a flashlight into corners that even Discogs seems to have forgotten. Up from the darkness come The Poor Little Rich Kids, who appear to be a true one-off mystery. My admittedly limited detective work turned up almost nothing, which is fitting because history seems to have treated them with the same enthusiasm as a telemarketer calling during dinner.

To be fair, I can understand why this one never climbed the charts. It isn't bad so much as it is hopelessly outgunned. Released in December 1966, She's The Best Girl In Town b/w Stop-Quit It arrived just in time to be steamrolled by one of the most ridiculously stacked periods in pop music history. Imagine walking into the ring armed with that single while facing in late 1966 Good Vibrations, I'm a Believer, Mellow Yellow, For What It's Worth, Friday on My Mind, and Pretty Ballerina or in January 1967 Happy Together, There's A Kind Of Hush, I Think We're Alone Now, Ruby Tuesday- WOW! That's less a chart battle and more a musical version of being dropped into the Colosseum with a butter knife.

And so the Poor Little Rich Kids earned a place in pop history's witness protection program. They arrived, released a record, disappeared, and left collectors like me wondering if they actually existed or were simply a shared hallucination among teenagers who spent too much time near transistor radios. Ultimately, the Poor Little Rich Kids became exactly what their name unintentionally predicted: poor, little, and largely unknown.

 

Detroit Jr. - Call My Job / The Way I Feel

Preparing for this morning’s post, I was surprised to see yesterday’s post rack up 270 views. Let’s just say that’s an enormous jump from my usual numbers, and I’m a little perplexed. Normally, a doo-wop-ish 45 doesn’t exactly set the internet on fire.

So now I’m curious. Was it a happy accident? Did I stumble into something people want more of? Or were some of you wondering if you’d accidentally clicked on the wrong record collector? Reach out and let me know. If you enjoyed it, I can certainly dig deeper into that lane. If it wasn’t what you were expecting, I’d like to hear that too.

Today’s post has me thinking about something else entirely: taking a day off. A genuine day off. I’m planning to take at least one Friday off sometime in the next month. Maybe even two if I’m feeling particularly rebellious.

I’d love to hit the road and meet up with a record-collecting buddy in Florence, South Carolina. We’ve been talking about getting together for a while, but there’s one problem: I don’t really have anything significant to trade him at the moment. He’s looking for some Deon Jackson records, and I know I have a few duplicates somewhere. The challenge is that those duplicates are currently scattered across what can only be described as the known universe of record boxes.

Maybe this weekend I’ll gather all my Deon Jackson records into one place, see what duplicates turn up, and, naturally, record a few of them for a future Friday Soul Day. After all, every great record-collecting expedition starts with a simple plan and ends three hours later with boxes everywhere and absolutely no idea how you got there.