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.

Billy Storm & the Valiants - Walkin Girl / We Knew

Alright now, lean back and let the needle drop…

We’re talking about a man who couldn’t stick to just one name if he tried—Billy Storm when the lights hit the stage. Or should I say his birth name William E. Spicer… maybe Billy Jones… perhaps Billy Fortune … and if you were flipping over a songwriting credit, you might’ve spotted John Carson or Billy Carson. Yeah, this guy had more aliases than a late-night detective.

And he didn’t just move through names—he moved through groups. Back in his high school days, he was already cutting his teeth in a handful of  outfits like The Chavelles, and The Sabers— finding his sound, living that raw, restless life of a young musician. By the time the dust settled into a group called The Valiants, the name Billy Storm was the one that stuck. Between solo records in the later 60's he continued to be involved in groups like the Nuggets, Africa, and The Brothers & Sisters. This man did not sleep.

Now through the ’50s and ’60s, Storm was everywhere—recording on more than a dozen labels, chasing that sound, that moment. He even cracked the Billboard Top 40 during his time with Columbia. You crate diggers out there—you’ve probably spotted those Columbia or Loma 45s… but let’s be honest, that HBR pressing? That’s the one that seems to find you.

But tonight… oh tonight, we’re spinning a little slice of 1959 magic.

The A-side? It jumps right out of the speakers—whoopin’, hollerin’, with just a touch of Spanish flair to keep your ears guessing. It’s got that wild, late-’50s energy that makes you want to move without even thinking about it.

The B-side slows it all down. Smooth, tender, and full of that aching teenage sincerity. It’s the kind of record that doesn’t just play—it lingers. You can almost see it: a dimly lit gym, a Friday night dance, hands just a little unsure where to go, hearts beating louder than the music. It’s that moment where the noise of the world fades out, and it’s just the two of you swaying in time, hoping the song never ends.

And that’s where “We Knew” really settles in.

For me… it’s a time machine. Straight back to high school. Me and my girl, thinking we were smooth… slipping past curfews, stealing moments, convinced we were getting away with just a little bit more than we should’ve.

But you know how it goes…

Our parents… hers, mine… they’d just look at us with those knowing eyes.

Didn’t matter how clever we thought we were.

They already knew.

And oh yeah… they always knew.

Roy Wood - The Premium Bond Theme

Surf Monday has, quite unapologetically, packed its little surfboard and toddled off elsewhere this week. No crashing waves, no sun-bleached guitars—just a polite note left on the door: “Back soon (perhaps).”

Instead, we’re wandering down a different beach entirely—one where the sand sparkles a bit oddly, the tide hums in orchestral tones, and genres politely ignore the dress code. Surf Monday, it seems, has traded its flip-flops for velvet boots and a mischievous grin.

And honestly…who’s to say Monday can’t have an identity crisis now and then? So Roy Wood—ringmaster of The Move and early ELO—isn’t exactly riding the surf? Pish-posh! Who needs waves when you’ve got swagger this tidal? This cheeky little B-side struts in like it owns the saloon, and—oh!—the label whispers (with a conspiratorial wink) that every single instrument is Roy himself. One man, an entire orchestra. A musical octopus in platform boots. Honestly, rather dazzling.

And the title? Oh, it practically twirls its mustache and declares, “That everyday James Bond theme? How quaint. For the masses!” No, no—Roy is brewing up the deluxe edition, the velvet-rope version, the one served with a sparkling umbrella and a knowing smirk.

It conjures a most peculiar daydream: James Bond wandering into the Old West, spurs jangling, martini mysteriously intact…perhaps rubbing shoulders with Robert Conrad in The Wild Wild West. Honestly, I half expect Roy to leap from behind a cactus and take over that theme song too. Why stop at Bond when there are so many melodies begging for a proper Roy-ing?

Imagine it: Roy Wood and the Great Theme Songs (yes, yes, not the most original title—but heavens, who would complain?). Picture him gleefully dismantling The Good, The Bad and The Ugly—of which the movie- the gloriously long extended version—is one of the greatest films ever to tip its hat at the sun.

But alas, until I acquire Roy’s secret contact scroll and pitch this grand scheme, we must content ourselves with this particular interpretation…which, to be fair, is already twirling a baton in its own marvelous little universe.