Graham Parker And The Rumour- Stick To Me

I want to make it perfectly clear—there is NO such thing as too much Graham Parker. None. Zero.  The concept simply does not exist. I could turn this entire blog into a 24/7, non-stop Graham Parker Appreciation Network and shrine—album by album, song by song, lyrical breakdowns, deep cuts, live versions, B-sides—and it would not only be justified, it would be a public service and would feel completely normal, healthy, and possibly even medically recommended (in my world, anyway).  

This past weekend I achieved a level of Graham Parker devotion normally reserved for ancient cults and tax audits: I ordered TWO of his albums—one autographed, because clearly I deserve luxury—and a book from his record company. At this point I’m not just a fan; I’m basically the CFO of the Graham Parker Merch Acquisition Department.

If SiriusXM had even an ounce of decency, there would already be a dedicated Graham Parker channel and I would be not just a charter member, but probably calling in daily like some kind of obsessive lunatic requesting the same songs I already own five versions of. Until that glorious day arrives, Underground Garage is basically the lone outpost keeping the faith alive, and for that, I salute them.

Stick to Me drops in 1977, right as Graham is starting to get some traction in the U.S., and where am I? Twelve years old, listening to whatever watered-down, focus-grouped nonsense my local radio stations were spoon-feeding me. And let me tell you—they were NOT playing Graham Parker. No, no, that would have required taste, courage, and possibly a functioning spine.  Apparently, that was considered “too interesting” for daytime programming.

My real introduction came later—late-night radio, when the DJs would go rogue and clearly decide, “You know what? Let’s actually play good music for a few hours.” That’s when Graham sneaks in, and suddenly it’s like—what IS this? Who IS this? Why does this sound about 1,000 times better than everything I hear during the day? I immediately realized that my daytime listening consisted mostly of what can only be described as premium-grade “el crapo.”

From that point forward, it’s game over. You don’t casually listen to Graham Parker—you fall down the rabbit hole. Hard. Naturally, this led to a daily routine: stay up late, discover amazing music, then spend the next day wondering why the radio suddenly sounded like it had given up on life.

And yes, Graham has already shown up on this blog four times. FOUR. Honestly, I’m showing admirable restraint. I do need to go back and add some photos to those posts, especially now that I’ve picked up a few items that further justify—if not outright demand—additional Graham content. Not that I need justification, but it’s nice to pretend.

Because this isn’t just appreciation anymore. This is a full-blown Graham Parker situation.

The Reveliers - Part III / Maureen

Mondays don’t sneak up on you… they attack. Like—no warning, no hesitation—just boom, full-speed NASCAR into your soul. I finally get into a groove—life’s feeling good—and then suddenly it’s like, “Hey! Get dressed. You have responsibilities.” But I’m taking a little comfort this week—short week. Thursday off, Friday’s a holiday. Which means mentally, I’ve already stopped working.

But first… we’ve got to set the mood right. Let’s get some catchy instrumentals going—something with a little groove, a little bounce… something that gets the toes tapping before the chaos begins. Because nothing says “I’m about to tell you about my weekend struggles” like background music that makes it sound way more impressive than it actually was.

This weekend started out simply. I picked up my resurrected mower from the shop and went to mow the lawn. And when I say “mowed the lawn,” I don’t mean a nice, peaceful suburban chore. No—this was an expedition.

I fire it up and immediately realize… I am not mowing a yard. I am entering a biome. This wasn’t grass. This was a National Geographic special. I’m halfway expecting David Attenborough to pop up like: “Here we see a middle-aged man… in his natural habitat… confused, sweaty, and immediately regretting his life choices…”

I’m pushing this mower through what can only be described as a backyard rainforest thinking, “I might discover a lost Mayan temple back here.” And I didn’t find one… which honestly felt rude. Like if I’m going through that, at least give me a cursed artifact.

But you know what I didn’t find? Spider webs… and snakes. And at this point in life… that’s a win. If I finish yard work and there are zero spiders or snakes involved, I’m like, “Successful weekend. No notes.”

Meanwhile, my dog Cooper is out there watching me. Before, the grass was so tall he could only see me like—two little eyes peeking through the blades like he’s in a spy movie. Now the lawn is cut and he’s just standing there like, “Oh wow… you’ve always looked that tired, huh?”

But I prepared for this journey properly. Before I even started, I picked up some jazz and soul records at a friend’s house, because nothing motivates yard work like knowing, “If I survive this… there’s vinyl waiting.”

And then Saturday hits the high point—and I don’t know what I did right in life—three record packages show up in the mail. Three. That’s not mail. That’s a spiritual experience. I’m standing in my living room like a vinyl goblin: “Yessss… my precious…”

So now I’ve got records everywhere, the lawn is finally under control, no spiders, no snakes, dog’s judging me less aggressively… and I’m just standing there singing like Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies:

“I’VE GOT JOY JOY JOY JOY DOWN IN MY HEART!”

—which, at this stage of life, might also be acid reflux… but we’re calling it joy.

Roland Gee /Clarence Yelverton- The Same GOD/Reap What You sow

I was genuinely worried the static was going to bully this track into early retirement, but here I am—fighting through it like a DJ who refuses to abandon the booth during a full‑blown lightning storm. Because honestly? These songs are just too good not to unleash on the world. Music is basically the duct tape holding my soul together, and at this point I’m held together with more tape than speaker.

And I will never understand how people stick to one genre. One. Single. Genre. Meanwhile As you can clearly see, I’m over here musically zig-zagging like I’ve had three cups of coffee and no supervision—and loving every second of it and thriving.

Now, on the tech side (cue dramatic organ chord): I got my ReadySHARE working on my older computer like it was a loyal old dog… but my new sleek machine? Absolutely not. It looked at me like, “No love today – later dude, or never.” So I adapted. I started tossing together basic posts, uploading pictures, throwing songs onto my media storage site, and then had a revelation that hit me like a plot twist in a soap opera:

I have songs with no pictures… and pictures with no songs.

My content is basically running a mismatched sock empire.

BUT—silver lining—I’ve got about a month’s worth of half-finished posts sitting there like polite little ghosts waiting for me to write the words give them life. So logically, that means I don’t have to record anything for a while, right?

…Right.

WRONG. Absolutely not.

Because those stacks of 45s are not shrinking, and my “usual suspects” of groups I have neglected are all in there, lined up banging on the turntable door. Meanwhile I’m just standing there like: “Guys… I only pressed shuffle.” And let’s be real—there is always room (and spiritual necessity) for more Gospel in the mix.

So yeah… it’s a great time to be in my collection. It’s chaotic, slightly feral, questionably organized, but full of absolute gems—and I’m just over here digging through it like a kid in a candy store with no adult supervision.

Chandells - We Are The Ones/Little Girl, Pretty Girl

I picked up this Colorado 45 a few months ago via mail order, because nothing says “I’m living my best life” like buying obscure 45s sight‑unseen from strangers. I grew up about 30 miles from Pueblo, though at the time I treated it like a mysterious land beyond the horizon — the Narnia of southern Colorado, except instead of talking animals you get steel mills and green chile.

I didn’t spend much time there until my first year of college at The University of Southern Colorado (now Colorado State University Pueblo). And let me tell you, nothing makes you feel like a fossilized relic quite like applying to grad school at East Carolina University in 2010 and calling USC for your transcripts, only to hear: “Oh, those are in the archives… we’ll have to find them.” THE ARCHIVES. As if my academic records were ancient scrolls stored in a climate‑controlled vault guarded by a guy named Harold who hasn’t blinked since 1987. I half expected them to say, “We’ll need a team of archaeologists and possibly a priest.”

Back in March, I wrote about picking up 400 45s when I visited my mom — that guy lived in Pueblo too. I can only imagine the records his grandfather had that were already sold. Probably a treasure trove of stuff that would make collectors weep softly into their Discogs want lists.

Anyway, the only Pueblo 45 I remember ever finding in the dense wild was a copy of The Trolls (which I posted last year), and it was so beat up and warped it looked like it had survived a small house fire and then been used as a coaster. I sold it years ago and then found the PS and it took me 20+ years to find another copy. This 45 doesn’t have the raw power of The Trolls, but it’s got that charming Teen wannabe Garage vibe — like the band couldn’t decide whether they wanted to jingle jangle rock out or sit cross‑legged with acoustic guitars and talk about feelings. According to the Cogs of Discs, only 500 were pressed, and Norman Petty handled the Hammond and production. It’s not an expensive record, but it is a neat little artifact from the only 45 this group ever put out.

As for today: it’s the day I pick up my lawnmower, freshly resurrected from the brink of death like some suburban Lazarus. Then I get to mow the jungle formerly known as my yard. After that, it’s recording time — I’ve got some 12" singles, maybe a few LP cuts, and of course the 7" platters that are stacked everywhere like vinyl Jenga. Nothing like being your own boss… …until your significant other (the real boss) hands you the chore list with the kind of authority that makes HR departments tremble.

Mike & The Censations – Don't Mess With Me / There Is Nothing I Can Do About It

Friday Soul means the weekend is within sniffing distance. I’m a creature of habit—borderline professionally so. Certain days demand certain posts (Friday Soul being sacred ground), just like my mornings follow a script so predictable it could be syndicated.

At 4:45 a.m., the coffee pot fires up like a starter pistol. Somehow my sleeping brain hears it and says, “Alright, champ, let’s go suffer productively.” Next thing I know, my feet hit the floor.

I attempt some stretching—which is less “graceful yoga” and more “rusty robot trying not to fall apart.” Shoulders creak, neck protests, dignity questionable.

Enter Super Cooper, the Wonder Dog, who may or may not emerge from under the bed like a furry cryptid (long story for another exposé). I get dressed, pour coffee into the travel mug like it’s life-support fluid, grab his collar, and out we go.

We are lit up like a Christmas tree—because I’m fairly certain those early-morning drivers would love to add “human hood ornament” to their morning commute highlights.

We stick to our standard one-hour loop, because heaven forbid we introduce chaos. Weekends? Oh, we really let loose—we walk on campus. That’s right. Living on the edge.

Toward the end of the walk, we pass a thrift store with a security camera that chirps, “Hi, you are being recorded.” Every. Single. Morning. At this point, I assume there’s a highlight reel somewhere titled “Man Walks Dog: An Intimate Study of His Backside.”

Once a week, I’ll grab the free local paper and sit on the library bench like a retiree who accidentally wandered into my own life early. I read about the town’s latest financial “situation.” It’s not reassuring to know the people in charge are just as confused as the rest of us—fantastic B.S. all around.

Back home, I handle breakfast duties for Super Cooper and his feline overlords (let’s be honest about the hierarchy).  Then it’s shower time, where hot water bravely attempts (heroically, but with mixed results) to reverse decades of poor posture and questionable decisions.

Finally, upstairs to wrap up the blog post. I usually stay a week ahead—unless technology decides to remind me who’s really in charge (looking at you, last weekend). So yes, we’re currently in catch-up mode, population: me.

Alright, enough about my wildly thrilling, edge-of-your-seat existence—let’s get to the real reason we’re here…

The tunes.

I picked this up in Colorado Springs in March and all I can say is I’ve got a nose for these things. Sometimes you just know—and this one practically waved at me and said, “Hey dummy, buy me. You’ll thank me later.”

And I did. Oh, I did, and wow… did it deliver.

The tracks are smooth. Not just smooth—dangerously smooth. The kind of smooth that sneaks up on you and suddenly you’re nodding your head like you’ve got somewhere important to be.

1967? Absolute monster year! And this record? Criminally underexposed. Somehow flew under the radar—which feels like a personal insult now. The A-side has everything—horns that punch just right, a bass line that refuses to behave, guitar that knows exactly when to step in, and vocals so good they should come with a warning label. Background vocals? Just casually perfect, hanging in like they own real estate there.

Flip it over, and the B-side changes gears—slower, cooler, more deliberate. Same top-tier production, but now everything takes its time. The background vocals step forward like, “Yeah, we’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Flawless. Both sides.

I don’t remember exactly what happened the first time I dropped the needle—but I’m fairly confident it involved some ill-advised dancing, questionable rhythm, and a complete loss of self-awareness.  The kind of dancing that would end friendships if witnessed.

Not my finest visual moment.

But hey—it was my party…

…and this 45 absolutely stole the show.

The Blossoms - Lover Boy/My Love Come Home

I’ve been spending more time with the blog lately, which is either a wholesome creative outlet or a very elegant way of avoiding everything else on my to-do list. I tell myself it’s a positive distraction from the busy-ness of work life—and honestly, I’m sticking with that story or at least that’s the official position until a committee is formed.

Every now and then I wonder what retirement will look like in a few years, and the vision is clear: me, still chaotic, just with more daylight hours to rearrange the chaos. I already have a hard time staying focused on weekends, so clearly, I’m in training. Some Saturdays it feels like I’m moving one pile of 45s from one side of the room to the other, which gives the impression of progress while carefully avoiding the risks associated with actual progress. Then there’s the pile I need to lovingly clean and set up for my one-man listening party—attendance is low, but the host is enthusiastic- an event with excellent music, flexible start times, and a guest list that has never once caused trouble.  

Sometimes I find something in an unsorted and not yet excel documented box and manage to astonish myself, which is a nice trick when you’re the one who put it there in the first place. It really says less about discovery than it does about my filing system, a concept I use in the loosest possible sense

Man, I love these little platters. Take today’s pleasure: I posted a Blossoms 45 last year—Darlene Love incognito—and once again the credits do not disappoint. David Gates, later of Bread fame, was out here writing teenybopper songs before he set sail for the yacht rock waters of the ’70s. And naturally, Jimmy Bowen and Ernie Freeman are there too, providing that reassuring industry evidence that no one was simply guessing- they gave it that official stamp of “yes, this belongs in your soul.” These girl group sounds don’t just resonate with me, they knock on the door, let themselves in, and start rearranging the furniture quietly making it clear I no longer have full control of the premises

The Miss Alans - The Sad Last Days of Elvis Aaron Presley/Anatomy/Kangaroo/The Sad Last Days Of Elvis Aron Presley (Live On KCRW)

I’ve always had a soft spot for that delightfully slacker slouchy, “we-meant-to-do-that” sound—the kind that wanders in late, shrugs, and still steals the show. I mean, I come from the sacred age of Pavement and their wonderfully crooked charm, so it’s basically in my musical DNA.

Now, The Miss Alans? Total mystery creatures to me—until this scrappy little treasure tumbled into my hands like a thrift-store relic with a secret. And really, can we pause for the name? The Miss Alans. It sounds like a group of ghosts who almost introduced themselves properly but got distracted halfway through. I’m intrigued, mildly confused, and fully on board.

As for the songs—The Sad Last Days of Elvis Aron Presley and Anatomy—they feel like they slipped through a cosmic crack from an alternate universe where Nirvana recorded one more session, and Kurt decided to haunt these tracks personally. You can almost hear him lurking in the corners, fogging up the microphones.

Then—boom—Kangaroo. Not just any cover, but that Big Star gem handed down from the ever-enigmatic Alex Chilton. And here, it doesn’t just sit politely—it floats, it shimmers, it sort of gazes into the distance like it knows something we don’t.

And the whole thing? This humble little 45 clocks in at over 15 minutes, which feels less like a single and more like a pocket-sized odyssey…a mini-album that accidentally wandered into a smaller outfit and decided to stay.

Honestly, if this had “Nirvana” stamped across it, it’d probably come with velvet ropes and a triple-digit price tag. But instead? Two bucks. Two! A bargain for a parallel-universe séance set to tape.