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.

Hoodoo Gurus - Death Defying (Ooh -Wee) / Turkey Dinner

The Hoodoo Gurus proclaim, “Ever since the World Began… Ooh Wee,” and honestly, those melodies still whisk me off to some alternate dimension where everything sounds faintly of jangly guitars. But every now and then, I’m forced to revisit one of My life’s great unsolved mysteries: I once had a promo copy of that 12" single. Had. Past tense. Gone. Vanished. Houdini’d. And not just that one—apparently all my Hoodoo Gurus 12" singles decided to form a tiny vinyl commune somewhere far, far away from me.

Why do I keep revisiting this mystery? Because apparently, I enjoy emotional papercuts. Maybe I should focus on the bright side: my R.E.M., XTC, Replacements, Hüsker Dü, Bob Mould, and The Church 12" singles are still here, clinging to me like loyal pets who haven’t yet figured out they could do better.

The Gurus were absolute darlings of U.S. college radio—rightfully so. They should’ve broken into the mainstream too, but let’s face it: mainstream tastebuds often prefer their music like their mashed potatoes—bland, beige, and aggressively unseasoned. The Gurus deserve better. They’re criminally underrepresented on this blog, and I fully intend to keep chipping away at that stone until it finally gives up and says, “Fine, fine, write about them already.”

The Surfaris/The Biscaynes - Moment Of Truth/Church Key

This little slab of wax was excavated from a Denver record store in March while I was visiting family — the kind of place where every crate looks like it might contain either a forgotten masterpiece or someone’s failed garage‑band apology. My first impression? Alan desperately wanted the world to know this split Surf 45 was his. His autograph isn’t a signature; it’s a territorial warning. It basically screams, “Hands off!” or “I claim this in the name of Alan,” like he’s some vinyl‑hoarding Magellan planting a flag on a seven‑inch continent.

But then there’s the real mystery: what Moment of Truth are the Surfaris trying to deliver here? Google “Truth” and Wiki greets you with: “Truth is conformity to reality or fact.” Which immediately rules out politics, because politicians wouldn’t recognize Truth if it marched up wearing a name tag and bit them squarely on the backside. Maybe the Moment of Truth is simpler, purer: a clean, glassy wave and a surfer easing forward to hang five, toes flirting with the edge of the world.

The Biscaynes, meanwhile, take a swing at the classic “Church Key.” They give it a noble effort, but something’s missing — I kept waiting for the sacred giggles, the holy pop of a beer bottle cap, and that almost‑Lurch voice announcing, “C H U R C H K E Y.” Without that mischievous atmosphere, the track feels a little too clean, like someone sanitized the surfboard before waxing it. Maybe that’s why this seems to be the Biscaynes’ only release: a one‑and‑done moment where the universe said, “Nice try, fellas,” and gently escorted them off the stage.

The Keys of Heaven Ensemble - How Long Has It Been /Calling An Operator

Gospel 45s are almost always worn to the bone—grooves softened by decades of hands, turntables, and Sunday‑morning repetition—unless you’re lucky enough to unearth untouched store stock. The Keys of Heaven Ensemble (a name that already feels like a stained‑glass window glowing in late‑day sun) reaches straight into the chest.

This Richmond, Virginia 45 doesn’t just start; it awakens. First come the crackles—like rain tapping on an old tin roof—then the static thins out, peeling away until the voice rises through the haze. Suddenly the message is clear, warm, and close enough to feel on your skin: Oh Children, How Long Has It Been Since You’ve Been Home.

“Calling An Operator” made its way onto this blog back in 2023 as "Operator – Long Distance” , credited only to an unknown group under the simple name Gospel. I loved that mysterious version, but S. Robinson brings a different electricity—like someone tightening the focus on a lens until the whole scene snaps into clarity.