Bobby Freeman - Everybody's Got A Hang Up / Oughta Be A Law

The Bobby Freeman songs I grew up hearing on the radio were the big, shiny, respectable Top 10 hits — Do You Want to Dance and C’mon and Swim — the ones that get invited to weddings and grocery‑store playlists. But you never hear this funky little troublemaker. And of course it’s a raver, because Bobby didn’t really do “subtle.”

Everybody’s Got a Hang Up managed to claw its way up to #122 on the Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “We like your enthusiasm, kid, but you’re not getting into the club tonight.” And the B‑side? Oughta Be a Law — which feels like Bobby himself filing a complaint with the chart police about that #122 placement.

I picked this one up about a year ago and, in classic fashion, am just now getting around to spinning it. Bobby, meanwhile, moved from record label to record label with the frequency most of us change underwear — though honestly, Bobby might’ve changed labels more often.

I posted one of his other 45s before — probably my favorite — and I found that one in one of the most magnificent buys of my entire vinyl‑hoarding career. The kind of score that makes you feel like the universe briefly smiled at you and said, “Here, champ. You earned this.”

And yes… I am overdue for another big score. The vinyl gods know it. Cooper knows it. Even Princess Rian probably knows it.

Lynn Hope - Body And Soul/Sands of The Sahara

The morning ritual: Cooper drags you through the muggy streets like he’s training for the Iditarod, you shower off the humidity, slam enough coffee to wake the ancestors, and settle in for a little Lynn Hope detective work.

Before the detective work, it’s the spinning that’s the first step — the sacred initiation rite of the record‑obsessed. Picking up an early King 45 is basically spinning a musical roulette wheel: will it be R&B? A country hillbilly bopper? Jazz? A novelty record about “Mussolini Laid His Pistol Down?" Who knows! King Records was chaos with a catalog number. I honestly was expecting a female country singer named Lynn… and the record basically stood up, adjusted its turban, and said, “Absolutely not.” That’s the King Records experience in a nutshell. 

Sometimes you just need some sweet jazz — the kind that slides into your morning like it’s wearing silk pajamas and refusing to hurry. So when the A side turned out to be slow‑burn sax bliss, it felt like winning the vinyl lottery. That syrupy early‑jazz tone? Pure velvet. It drifted right into the same emotional neighborhood as Say It (Over and Over Again) — my favorite Coltrane track from “Ballads” and the sonic equivalent of staring out a rainy window while contemplating your choices for today.

The B‑side didn’t just play — it transported. One second you’re flipping a King 45, the next you’re drifting into a dreamlike trance where Lynn Hope is gliding into camp after a long trek across the Sahara, perched atop a camel who’s clearly tired of his nonsense. The air shimmers, the sand glows, and Lynn — turban immaculate, sax slung like a talisman — is greeted by a harem that’s been waiting all afternoon, lounging like they’re in a perfume commercial that never aired because it was too sultry for television.

It’s the kind of scene that only late 50's & early 60's King jazz can conjure: half fantasy, half folklore, all saxophone‑induced mirage. The music doesn’t just play; it summons. And suddenly you’re thinking, “Yeah, this tracks. This is exactly the energy of a man who wore a turban on stage and then vanished into spiritual devotion.”

And Lynn Hope… invisible and disappearing like a genie — the kind who doesn’t bother with lamps, just vanishes in a puff of saxophone smoke. One minute he’s drifting through the B‑side like he’s serenading the desert moon, the next he’s gone, slipping out of the music business with the same elegance he slipped into a turban. No scandal, no dramatic or public exit — just poof, gone. It’s the perfect exit for a man whose tone already sounded half‑mythical: poof, no more touring, no more King Records roulette, just a quiet fade into faith and mystery. Lynn Hope didn’t bow out — he evaporated. He slipped out of the music world the same way his sax lines slipped through a room: smooth, unannounced, and leaving you wondering if he’d ever been there at all.

Turns out he converted to Islam in the 1940s and later taught the Quran in a Philadelphia mosque, which honestly feels like the most dignified “I’m done with this industry” move imaginable. No press release, no farewell tour, no dramatic last‑album‑that‑nobody‑asked‑for — just a man deciding he’d rather trade nightclub smoke for spiritual clarity. It’s the kind of exit that makes you respect him even more: Lynn Hope didn’t quit music, he ascended out of it.

Tobin Sprout - Let Go Of My Beautiful Balloon /Shirley The Rainbow

Tobin Sprout might be the unheralded silent champion of early Guided By Voices — the guy in the corner quietly painting masterpieces while Pollard is duct‑taping microphones to ceiling fans and inventing new genres by accident. And as I’ve said before, I really need to share more GBV around here. If you know (and like) Guided By Voices, then you already get it: that magical, simple, lo‑fi clatter that sounds like it was recorded in a basement, a garage, and possibly a broom closet at the same time. What a band. They have never disappointed me — not once, not even on the weird releases with cover art that looks like a ransom note.

Tobin was part of the early incarnation, really stepping into the spotlight around Propeller and Vampires on Titus. And of course his contributions to Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes are nothing to sneeze at — unless you’re allergic to brilliance. When the original group disbanded, he dropped some solo releases that are genuinely wonderful (and yes, I only have promo CDs, not vinyl, which is a situation I need to rectify before the Vinyl Gods smite me).

He came back for the reunion run, stuck around for four years, and then — in true GBV fashion — the original group disbanded again like a garage‑rock version of Groundhog Day.

What’s consistent, though, is Tobin’s melodic sense and those unmistakable vocal stylings. This 45 proves it. Let Go of My Beautiful Balloon floats along with that lo‑fi simplicity: the strumming, the vocals, the “we recorded this with whatever was within arm’s reach” charm. It’s refreshing — a palate cleanser in a world obsessed with bombastic overproduction and plugins that cost more than my first car.

Sometimes you just need something simple, honest, and a little scruffy around the edges. Tobin’s always been great at that.

Billy Crash Craddock with The Blue Notes- Birddoggin/Millionaire

I think this is officially The Week to Catch up, because I’ve started dozens of posts with pictures, sounds, vibes, and good intentions… and then promptly abandoned them like stray socks behind the dryer. I have so many unfinished posts that they’re starting to get buried like the Sphinx — majestic, mysterious, and absolutely covered in metaphorical sand. I scroll endlessly through the digital desert, discovering half-written drafts like ancient artifacts: “Oh look, a post I started in May. How quaint.” All I need now are the words — you know, the part that keeps you, my faithful followers, entertained with my gloriously irrelevant musings.

Today’s excavation brings forth another North Carolina 45, and once again, one I had zero awareness of. Enter Billy “Crash” Craddock — Greensboro’s own, and a man whose name sounds like he should be jumping cars over flaming barrels instead of singing. In the ’50s and ’60s, Billy couldn’t buy a hit in the U.S. if he showed up at the Billboard offices with a suitcase full of cash and a plate of homemade biscuits. The charts took one look at him and said, “No thanks, we’re full — try again after Elvis leaves.”

But hop across the globe to Australia, and suddenly the man was a top charter. Not just “doing okay,” but “the Aussies have decided this guy is their new national treasure.” It’s like America handed him a polite rejection letter while Australia threw him a parade, a surfboard, and possibly a kangaroo. He was huge there — like “teen idol who causes fainting” huge. Meanwhile, back home, he was still stuck in the “please notice me” aisle of the musical supermarket.

It’s one of those great music‑history quirks: sometimes you’re ignored in your own backyard, but halfway around the world, people are losing their minds over you. But then the ’70s rolled in, bell‑bottoms flapped, mustaches thickened, and suddenly Billy became a full‑blown Country Music staple. It was like America collectively woke up one morning, stretched, yawned, and said, “You know what? We do like this guy. Let’s put him everywhere.”

After years of being ignored at home and worshipped in Australia, he finally hit that sweet spot where the U.S. charts stopped playing hard to get. He went from “Who?” to “Oh yeah, that guy!” faster than you can say Grand Ole Opry. By the mid‑’70s, he was basically unavoidable — the kind of artist who’d show up on every jukebox, every radio station, and probably every roadside diner that served coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon.

It’s one of those great music arcs: Ignored→ Exported → Worshipped → Re‑Imported → Beloved. A true American boomerang.

I knew him from childhood road trips, when the parental units insisted on Country Music radio stations. Nothing says “family bonding” like being trapped in the backseat while someone croons Rub It In at you. That one was a #1 hit, as was his cover of Ruby Baby. The man basically took pop and rock songs, marched them over to the Country charts, and said, “Y’all mind if I set up camp here?” And the charts said, “Sure, buddy, pull up a chair.”

But before all that, he started out in the rockabilly trenches — as this 45 proudly demonstrates. It’s always fun when a record reminds you that even the most country-fried artists once had a pompadour dream and a guitar that needed to be slapped around a little.

Mercy- Fire Ball

This song didn’t just surprise me — it detonated. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t warned. No one handed me goggles or a helmet. Mercy, the same band responsible for the extremely polite, extremely well‑behaved Love (Can Make You Happy) — a song so gentle it could be used to soothe anxious houseplants — apparently had a B‑side that throws furniture.

Now, Mercy had two chart singles, and that A‑side hit #2, blocked from the top spot by The Beatles’ Get Back, which is honestly the most Beatles thing ever: “Oh, you wanted a #1? Cute. Good luck with that.” And Mercy still tours with the original lead singer, which is interesting and impressive and also completely irrelevant to the fact that I have owned approximately 47 copies of this 45 and never listened to the B‑side because… why would I? I knew the A‑side. It’s friendly. It’s melodic. It’s the musical equivalent of a warm handshake from a man named Harold.

So, I’m watching an online record auction — you know, the kind where the auctioneer plays a snippet of the 45 like they’re a DJ at a retirement home — and suddenly they play the B‑side. And I’m thinking: “You’re playing the wrong side, champ. Fireball is not the hit. “But then my brain goes: WHAT?! WHAT IS THIS?! WHO SWAPPED THE RECORD WHEN I WASN’T LOOKING?!

Because Fire Ball comes roaring out like Mercy suddenly decided to moonlight as a Psych band that drinks battery acid for breakfast. It’s loud, it’s wild, it’s unhinged — it’s the kind of track that makes you sit up straight and reconsider your entire filing system.

Naturally, I bid. Naturally, I won it for a buck. Naturally, I probably already have ten copies buried somewhere in my boxes, but I wasn’t taking chances. This was a spiritual awakening.

And now it’s filed in my collection, waiting for the day when I leave this earthly plane and some poor soul goes through my records and says: “Why did he keep this sappy Mercy 45 next to The Tamrons?” Flip the 45, buddy. Flip. The. 45.

Capitol City Five -I've Got Jesus / Born Again

I woke up exhausted again, which at this point feels less like a temporary condition and more like my brand. Yesterday didn’t help — I spent the day trying to organize the record rooms and straighten up the attic, which is basically CrossFit for vinyl collectors. Same sweat, same grunting, but instead of kettlebells you’re lifting 45 boxes that mysteriously gain weight every time you move them.

I had one of those hard plastic shelves that was holding on by sheer stubbornness, and I decided to replace it with a metal storage shelf. Naturally, this meant moving half the record room, my turntable setup, and possibly shifting the Earth’s axis. The plan is to stack some 45 boxes on it, plus the printer and modem, because nothing says “home organization” like balancing technology on top of gospel records.

Today, I’m paying for it. My body has filed several complaints.

The sleep situation didn’t help either. My wife needs noise at night, so the TV stays on — and not at a reasonable volume. No, no. It’s always some show where the acting is so bad it feels like the cast is reading cue cards written by someone who’s never met a human. I drift from dreaming about the TV show to waking up and listening to it, like I’m trapped in a low‑budget cinematic universe. If she puts on a biblical movie or documentary, though? Much better dreams. I’ll take ancient prophets over bad drama acting any night.

This morning I was so stiff my hot shower lasted longer than the walk Cooper and I managed. I’m hoping the coffee will finally clock in for its shift and jolt me into existence. That will help me with this week's lesson, which is nearly last week’s lesson continued? Another flea‑market gamble — another Capitol City Five 45. Blessings all around. Honestly, at this point they should send you a loyalty card.

Gasoline Powered Clock - Forest Fire On Main St. (Run, Run, Run)

Brilliant. Absolutely deranged brilliance. You have to admire 1960s bands for naming themselves like they found three random words in a junk drawer and dared fate to make them famous. Gasoline Powered Clock is already fantastic, but if they formed today, some streaming consultant would rename them Solar-Powered Smartwatch, give them a wellness newsletter, and make the drummer explain their brand pillars on a podcast. 

Their song “Forest Fire On Main St. (Run, Run, Run)” is catchy as hell—one of those songs that kicks down your front door, steals your shoes, and somehow convinces you to thank it as you constantly push the repeat button. I’ve seen it called “garage”, I’ve seen it called “soul”, and honestly, it sounds like both genres got into a fistfight while locked in a basement with a fuzz pedal and decided to work things out. The guitar hooks me right away, and the singer has exactly the right voice: urgent, Gary Lewis-ish, and just unpolished enough to make it feel dangerously alive. 

Apparently, this was their only 45, which feels perfect in the most 1960s way possible. Maybe they had one song, one afternoon, and one functioning extension cord, so they shrugged, flipped the tape over, and made the B-side an instrumental because civilization had already asked enough of them. Fair enough. It stands on its own merit, smells faintly of gasoline, and still manages to arrive with both hands full of fire.