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.

The Action - Winsom's Melody/ Hang On Sloopy

From the great white north drifts this charming little 45 from the Action—a name so gloriously generic it almost loops back around to being bold. But what is bold is their slow‑motion, hold‑your‑best‑girl‑tight take on “Hang On Sloopy,” a cover that feels like it was meant for dim lights and a dance floor that’s just starting to spin.

Flip to the A‑side and suddenly you’re hit with chiming guitars, a rolling bass line, and handclaps that sparkle like someone tapping out joy on the inside of your skull. It’s the kind of sound that turns an ordinary Saturday into a tiny celebration.

Chuck Jackson - Never Let Me Go/Baby I Want To Marry You

Catching up on the old blog feels a bit like sweeping the floor of a long‑abandoned record shop — clearing out the draft posts I’ve let pile up like bottle caps in a forgotten drawer. I’m compulsive about my records but easily lured away by whatever new sound drifts through the air. One fresh melody, and suddenly the things I meant to finish get pushed to the back of the crate.

That’s where Chuck ended up — filed under “later,” which, if we’re honest, was the story of his whole career. He never cracked the pop stratosphere; his biggest pop single stalled at #23 and he hovered in the middle of the proverbial chart pack, as evidenced by my only other Chuck post. He fared better on the R&B charts and other artists took his songs further than he ever did, while he kept circling the edges, steady but unsung.

When I’m crate‑digging, it’s almost a guarantee that a Wand‑label 45 that I see will have his name on it, like a quiet reminder I still haven’t given him his due. Maybe that’s my loss. The world certainly lost something when he left us in 2023 at 85 — a voice I’m only now realizing I should have listened to sooner.

 

Hollywood Jills- A Good Thing Baby/He Makes Me So Bad

The secret surprises lurking in my unorganized boxes never fail to amaze me. I keep telling myself I should pull out the interesting things and put them all in one respectable, grown‑up box to research later…but honestly, leaving them scattered feels like Christmas morning engineered by a slightly confused elf. Every time I open a box, I’m basically gifting myself something I forgot I owned.

This weekend’s surprise? Hollywood Jills, rising out of a random box like a phoenix who took a wrong turn and ended up in my hit or miss boxes. They started on a tiny New Orleans label before Capitol swooped in like, “We’ll take that!”—only for the whole thing to drift into obscurity. Or so I thought. When Rhino resurrected the “B” side for their 2005 girl‑group box set (still on my to‑pick‑up list, naturally), they treated it as a lost gem worth spotlighting. But I’m presenting it the way Capitol originally intended: A‑side / B‑side, no revisionist reshuffling.

And maybe that’s why it slipped into obscurity in the first place—filed away as a secondary track, never given the oxygen an A‑side gets, left to drift until someone decades later decided it deserved another chance. Capitol got it. Rhino got it. And now my ears finally get it too, fashionably late but enthusiastically.

Soul Asylum - Something Out Of Nothing/Freaks/To Sir With Love/Marionette

The last Soul Asylum 12” I’ll be sharing for a while sits in my hands like a relic from a forgotten kingdom. For a while, I say — though somewhere in the record archives lurks another Soul Asylum 12" I’ve misplaced, a fact that gnaws at me with a slow, maddening frustration.

Oh, Soul Asylum… the beautiful, sloppy, unappreciated misfits of their era. They should have been crowned royalty, but instead they were tossed into the dust bins while lesser bands strutted across the stage. Only when Columbia came calling did they finally ascend the throne — but those A&M years? Those should have made them legends, the undisputed bosses of the whole scene.

I’ve spent years obsessing over Cooper, and I realize I’ve neglected my quieter companions — my feline confidants. Today belongs to K.C. He’s not feeling well, and the vet visit today left him wary, wounded in pride more than body. He’s five years old, a distant observer by nature, the kind of cat who watches the world from the shadows as if judging its every move.

When I picked him up today, he looked at me with a betrayal so profound I’m convinced he won’t let me near him again until the end of days.

And beneath all of this sits a softer ache: his sister, Izabo, whom we lost last year. Her absence lingers like a quiet, persistent echo.