The Rockin' Aces - Thunder / Evil

Yesterday was one of those days where I transformed into a one‑person domestic circus. I was straightening up like a caffeinated Generation X ( and I don't mean the Billy Idol kind), recording songs like I was auditioning for a gospel revival, updating the record database with the seriousness of a librarian who’s seen some things, and then hauling Cooper to Tractor Supply for his scrub a dub dub day and even my wifie helped with that endeavor. He strutted out of there like he owned stock in the company.

And now—boom—Monday. Back to work. Back to pretending I’m a functioning adult. And if the appliance vibrations of the earth decide to align, maybe the washing machine will finally be repaired. If not, I foresee myself stomping into the laundromat at dawn like a mythological creature fueled entirely by rage and washing machine pods. That evil machine has been testing my spirit.

I overslept, which I’m choosing to interpret as “my body needed it” instead of “I’m falling apart like a thrift‑store recliner.” Cooper didn’t get his walk, so he gave me that look dogs give when they’re disappointed but also plotting to knock something off a table later.

Then came the shower. I tried to be present, letting the hot water hit me like a tiny spa moment, when suddenly my brain screamed, “WHERE IS THE WASHING MACHINE RECEIPT?!” Full thunder panic. The kind where your soul briefly leaves your body to check the junk drawer. Miraculously, I found it in two minutes. Two. Minutes. I should get a medal or at least a parade with one float.

And yes, I absolutely saw my own cleverness using song titles in the post. I basically winked at myself. I must think I’m adorable or something.

El Dorados - Tears On My Pillow/A Rose For My Darling

I could’ve used a gospel 45 this morning — really could’ve strutted in with some sanctified reverb — but nope. Not a single one ready. My gospel bench is emptier than the McDonald’s promise of “order ahead for convenience,” which, by the way, they spectacularly failed at yesterday. I tried to get a sandwich with the app, they couldn’t get it right, and I took that as the universe tapping me on the shoulder saying, “Hey… buddy… you don’t need a sodium‑brick disguised as breakfast.”

So I drove off, slightly hungry, slightly smug, and went to pick up Tazzie’s urn from the vet — which was its own emotional weather system — and then, because my life is a collage, I hit an estate sale. Naturally, I met someone who wants to call me about her records. Because of course I did. I can’t go anywhere without accidentally networking like a man who smells faintly of 45 RPM destiny.

Then I got home, looked around, realized I had zero gospel ready, and immediately judged myself. I should’ve recorded at least one. I used to be so good — had ideas lined up a month at a time like a responsible adult who knows what he’s doing. Now I’m winging it like a possum who found a flashlight.

Busy day today, but maybe I can squeeze in a few recordings. Wednesday’s wide open, so maybe I’ll actually get my act together then. Maybe.

And as always — I’ll throw this out there again — any requests? Now’s the moment to speak up and say, “Hey how about some more Herman’s Hermits,” or “Hit me with some Dave Clark Five,” or “Do you have (insert obscure group here that only three people on Earth remember)?”

Otherwise it’s up to me… and you know what happens when it’s up to me. I might go down some weird direction that makes you pull out your hair and run screaming into the night like you just witnessed the Exorcist.

So what do you do on a Sunday morning with no gospel 45s ready? Easy — doo‑wop R&B and a Vee Jay promo. I always pick up obscure Vee Jay stuff, and finding a promo feels like winning a tiny lottery only record nerds understand. Someday maybe I’ll luck into a Beatles Vee Jay promo to go with my two Capitol “real” Beatles promos. A man can dream. And I do. Loudly.

The Stillroven – Little Picture Playhouse/Cast The Burden Upon The Stone

I woke up feeling like my body spent the night doing community theater instead of sleeping — lots of dramatic tossing, zero actual rest. Cooper and I took a short walk because the sky is apparently planning a water‑based assault, and then I took one of those unsatisfying showers where the water hits you like, “I’m doing my best,” and you’re like, “No you’re not.”

Now I’m sitting here, slowly sipping coffee like it’s a fragile emotional support beverage, staring at the day and wondering what heroic nonsense I’m going to accomplish. Eventually I realized I should probably just close my eyes, breathe deeply, and thank God for the day — because the week was long, the work was real, and somehow I still made it through without spontaneously combusting.

And then… ah yes… Saturday record hunting, the sacred ritual. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve done the full‑tilt vinyl safari instead of the “do laundry, hit two yard sales, call it a day” version. As much as I would love to, it won't happen today. But the mail did bring offerings — offerings packaged by people who apparently think records are made of flexible hopes and dreams instead of fragile cardboard and grooves.

One seller packed 12" singles in a box too small for physics, diagonally, like he was trying to smuggle them across the border in a geometry puzzle. Naturally the box arrived crushed, corners bent, and my soul briefly left my body. He’s sending a partial refund, but he has absolutely lost a customer. If that’s how he treats the vinyls — (ha ha, I tossed that in purely to antagonize the record‑collecting purists, and have a least one of you start vibrating like a tuning fork possessed by a mischievous ghost by my casually calling them the vinyls, as if I’ve committed a war crime against analog media)

But hey, small victories: the records weren’t completely obliterated, and that’s worth celebrating. So let’s enjoy a garage rarity by the Stillroven — or as Word autocorrect tried to rename them, Still Oven, which honestly sounds like a band that only plays songs about casseroles and emotional burnout.

This one came courtesy of my friend Jesse, who I really should text soon because we haven’t chatted much lately. And nothing says “I’m thinking of you” like sending someone a link to a band called Still Oven.

Soul Experience – I'm So Glad I Found You / Who's Lips You Been Kissing

Friday Soul ends with a banger, and honestly, I’m still riding the high from the day I accidentally stumbled into owning a pricey 45 like some kind of clueless vinyl raccoon who lucked into a bag of gold-plated Doritos.

So picture me at this special record auction in Burlington, NC — the kind of place where the air smells like dust, old cardboard, and quite frankly vinyl geeks like me. I’m chatting with this guy I know in Greensboro. We’re not “talk every week” friends, but we’re “nod knowingly at each other over stacks of obscure soul 45s” friends, which honestly feels more intimate.

There are, I kid you not, 5–10 thousand 45s piled everywhere. Some on tables, most boxed, all whispering buy me,… buy meee. We’re digging through them, finding weird gems, oddballs, and stuff that probably hasn’t seen daylight since Nixon was in office.

Enter the auctioneer — a man so crooked he could stand in a doorway and still block the whole thing. He’s making back‑door deals left and right, including one with my friend, who gets to pick out 8–10 boxes for a set price. I’m watching this like, “Ah yes, crime. But make it vinyl.”

The auctioneer is unloading everything in massive, chaotic lots — but the individual records were “curated” by a guy who supposedly knows this stuff, when in reality he was about as clueless as a Discogs bot trying to grade a G+ copy in the dark. When the boxed 45s finally hit the auction block in one big lot, I end up bidding against my friend. It gets hot. It gets heavy. I get swept up in the frenzy like a seagull chasing a french fry. Eventually I tap out, thank the vinyl gods, because I absolutely did not need to win that mess, not to mention trying to explain to my wife how much I spent.

Afterward, my friend tells me, “Man, I hope there’s a Soul Experience 45 on Smoke in those boxes.” I’m like, “Cool, cool, I have no idea what that means.” He explains there’s one super expensive one on Smoke, one not-so-expensive one, and he’d recently found a cheaper Smoke 45. My brain — which is basically a colander with aspirations — only retained the label Smoke.

Cut to a month later: a guy I know messages me saying he bought a mess of 45s and asks if I want to dig through them. Of course I do. This is my version of peaceful meditation.

I’m flipping through boxes, vibing, and suddenly — there it is. Soul Experience. Smoke label. My swiss-cheese memory lights up like a cheap neon sign: “HEY, YOU KNOW THIS ONE.” But really, I didn't.

Into the “yes, I’m buying this” pile it goes.

I get home, play it, fall in love, and then look it up.

Holy smokes. I got the good one.

Not the “oh neat” one. The expensive one. The “you only find this once every few years if the universe is feeling generous” one.

These kinds of finds are not normal. They’re cosmic accidents. They’re little miracles wrapped in cardboard sleeves. And this South Carolina band — bless them — dropped a one-off 45 so good it deserves every bit of hype it gets.

Jeri Jorden with The Billy Roland Band - Baby (Goes A Walkin' On The Moon) / Alone & Wishing

You know me — king of the girl‑sound 45s, emperor of the Thursday rotation, the guy who flips a record like it’s a sacred ritual handed down by ancient garage‑rock monks. I swear, if someone ever charted my listening habits, it’d look like a weather report: “And on Thursdays, expect a 90% chance of girl‑group harmonies with scattered handclaps.”

There’s not a lot out there about Jeri Jorden, which of course makes me like her even more. The A‑side hits me with this rockin’, soulful thing — and I’m sitting there trying to figure out if that’s an oboe sneaking around behind the drums. Like… who approved that? Who said, “Yes, let’s add a woodwind to this banger”? And then at the end, there’s that sweet little guitar line in the background, just vibing like it’s late to the session but still wants credit.

Then I flip it — because of course I flip it — and the B‑side suddenly decides it wants to be a Latin dance number. Or tango. Or maybe it’s neither and my ears are just full of wax from decades of listening to 45s that were stored in boxes labeled “misc.” But whatever it is, it makes me want to go walkin’ on the Moon, preferably in slow motion, holding a portable turntable like some kind of cosmic DJ.

And yes — I finally bumped the font up on the blog. I got tired of squinting at my own words like I was trying to decode ancient cave markings. I swear, getting old is HELL. Absolute, full‑capital‑letters HELL. My eyes have officially entered their “nope, we don’t do 8‑point type anymore” era, and honestly, I respect their boundaries.

Larry Trider - Carbon Copy/House Of The Blues

This has been described as popcorn soul, which immediately made me picture a committee of very serious Belgian citizens sitting in a circle, earnestly debating what soul music is while passing around a bowl of Jiffy Pop. I mean… bless them. They tried.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit I have absolutely no clue how to define popcorn soul. None. Zero. If you asked me to explain it, I’d probably just start sweating and point at a saxophone. But if Larry Tridder and Carbon Copy are ambassadors of this mysterious subgenre, then fine — I can groove with that. I don’t need to understand it to enjoy it. Half my record collection is built on that principle.

Larry himself passed in 2020 at the age of 80, and while he never cracked the charts (at least according to my extremely scientific method of “Googling until I get distracted”), the man had a busy career. He knocked boots with Buddy Holly and the Crickets, recorded in the Norman Petty studios, and generally lived the kind of musical life that makes you go, “Dang, okay, sir!”

It’s a nice reminder that a good career doesn’t have to be Beatles‑level or come with screaming fans and airport chaos. Sometimes it’s just decades of steady work, cool collaborations, and leaving behind a few 45s weirdos like me get excited about while drinking morning coffee.

Carl Perkins - Pink Pedal Pushers/Jive After Five

Don’t you just love kickin’ Rockabilly — that hip‑shakin’, hair‑greasin’, “my car only has two gears and both of them are trouble” kind of music? But here’s the cosmic joke: Carl Perkins kept scoring bigger hits on the Country charts than the Rock charts. The man invented the sound that makes teenagers climb out windows, and Billboard said, “Yes, but have you considered… tractors?”

Take Pink Pedal Pushers — #91 on the Pop charts, #17 on the Country charts. That’s not just a chart discrepancy; that’s a full‑blown identity crisis. Rockabilly Carl was out here setting his guitar on fire, and Country Carl was politely holding the door for folks at the Grand Ole Opry.

And then Columbia said, “We’re gonna fix this,” and unleashed this rare-as-hens-teeth promo picture sleeve — the kind of fold‑out artifact that makes collectors faint, speak in tongues, and briefly consider taking out insurance policies on their record shelves. It’s magnificent. It’s absurd. It’s the sort of thing you hold in your hands and feel your soul do a little somersault.

This is why I collect records: Because sometimes I get to cradle a picture sleeve that punches me lovingly in the belly and whispers, “Hey buddy… you’re doing life right.”

And Carl’s Sun 45s? Don’t get me started. Those are my love letters — my musical valentines — my “I care deeply, but in a cool, leather‑jacket way.” Posting them on my blog is basically me standing on a rooftop yelling, “I HAVE FEELINGS AND THEY ARE ALL 45 RPM.”

I'm just caring like that. A tenderhearted Rockabilly menace.

I have a stock copy with the stock picture sleeve — I know I do — but it’s currently living somewhere deep in the archaeological dig site I call my record room. It’s buried in those uncomped record boxes, the ones stacked like a Jenga tower built by a drunk raccoon. And am I going to go find it? Absolutely not. I’m far too lazy, spiritually unprepared, and emotionally fragile for that kind of expedition. Every time I think, “I should go look for that sleeve,” my brain immediately responds, “Or… hear me out… you could sit down and listen to Carl Perkins instead.” And honestly, that’s the kind of self‑care I believe in. Somewhere in those boxes — probably next to a stray Love 45, and at least one record I swear I’ve never seen before — that stock sleeve is just vibing, waiting for me to rediscover it like a chaotic vinyl Indiana Jones moment. But until then, it remains a mythic creature, a cardboard Bigfoot, a legendary artifact I’m too lazy to retrieve. And that’s fine. Because I know it’s there. And knowing is enough. (Also: bending over to dig through boxes is a young man’s game.)