The Caravans- I Find No Fault In GOD/Work Until The Day Is Done

Perspective is a marvelous thing. It reminds us that the tiny irritations nibbling at our ankles are, in the grand cosmic ledger, barely footnotes and basically cosmic lint. You can carry them around like a grudge filled backpack, or you can shrug, breathe, and move on like a reasonably evolved human. Forgiveness is key, even when it feels like trying to hug a porcupine.

Why am I writing all this? Because I had to talk myself into praying for guidance and forgiveness over something so trivial it barely qualifies as a problem: returning my allegedly “self propelling” lawn mower to the shop that recently worked on it. Yesterday, while I was mowing with all the dignity of a suburban monarch, the back wheel with all its intricate mechanisms decided to detach itself and pursue a solo career. It had had enough of this earthly plane and simply fell off. Just… plop. Freedom achieved.

Naturally, the shop had failed to reassemble it properly. So, I drove it back to the shop and watched them attempt the ancient art of performing interpretive excuses — a delicate dance in which they tried to explain why it wasn’t their fault — gravity, vibes, the alignment of Jupiter, who knows. Eventually, reason prevailed when they finally realized the wheel was, in fact, a crucial part of the self propelling mechanism they had worked on. Their grand concession? They wouldn’t charge me to repair it (again). I maintained my composure with the serene poise of a man who has decided, for once, not to unleash his inner operatic diva. I consider that a personal triumph.

I suppose this is where music makes its entrance — gliding in like a well‑dressed accomplice, giving me every excuse to abandon the day’s nonsense and slide, effortlessly, into something resembling peace. In the land of music: I haven’t listened to much Shirley Caesar, even though her records seem to multiply in every crate I flip through. And I’ll admit, I had no idea she was in the Caravans. But this little single? A delight. The sleeve doesn’t match the 45, but the pairing looks fantastic and it feels intentional like two stylish strangers who met at a bus stop and immediately began harmonizing. 

“I Find No Fault in God” came belting out of the speakers yesterday while I was recording it, and I thanked God for forgiving all my pettiness — including my temporary, mower related descent into melodrama.

The Standells - Dirty Water/Rari

I had a whole different plan for today — a bold, visionary direction, the kind of thing that would make curators weep and archivists applaud — but once again my photo folders staged a full‑scale rebellion. They’ve barricaded themselves somewhere deep in the digital catacombs and left a note saying, “Organize us this weekend or perish.” 

So instead, I bring you a stone cold classic — yes, the one we all hear constantly, the one that’s practically required by law to appear on any garage rock playlist. But I must confess something that may get me banished from the Record Collector’s Guild: I’ve owned this 45 for over half my life, and June was probably the first time I ever played the B side.

I know. I know. You’re already muttering, “Doesn’t he always say flip the beast over?” Guilty, your honor and I throw myself on the mercy of the court. Please don't send me to the gallows or sentence me to 50 lashes. And for the record, there will be no "Please sir, may I have another?" coming from these lips.

But back to the wax: Dirty Water is a classic, sure — it’s earned its accolades, its airplay, and its permanent residency in the collective garage rock brain. But holy moly, Rari is a full blown scorcher. Honestly, it might be the real star of this 45. I always root for the underdog, and Rari grabs you right from the intro: killer guitar, organ that sounds like it’s possessed by a friendly demon, pounding drums, and then former Mouseketeer Dick Dodd hollers, “RARI, they told me not to fall for an island girl.” Fantastic.

Of course, my overactive brain immediately wonders why DJs didn’t flip this baby over too — but once you hold that white label promo in your grubby little hands, you realize Dirty Water is on both sides. Tower Records said, “No risks. No surprises. No underdogs.” They were taking zero chances with this one. They weren't about to let an ambitious DJ accidentally discover another great song when they had a hit to shove down everyone's throat. Can you blame them? Probably not. Do I still think Rari deserves more love? Absolutely.

Mac And Barb and The Gamuts - What's Your Business Round Here/Hold Me Tighter

Friday is basically my personal Independence Day this week — I took it off, which magically transforms the weekend into a glorious three‑day escape. And honestly, I need it. My back has been staging a full‑scale rebellion. I had an appointment Monday, and the doctor delivered the kind of news you only hear in Blue Ridge Parkway folklore: my spine apparently looks like a winding mountain road. Not the scenic kind with overlooks and picnic tables — the kind where GPS gives up and says, “You’re on your own, buddy.” Apparently, straight lines are overrated but the good news is I'm officially on the road to getting it taken care of—pun fully intended.

Today’s distraction: another North Carolina killer soul 45 on the Pyramid label. Both sides are fantastic, — but I swear they put the A‑side in a key that required Barb to rent a ladder. She’s reaching notes that only migrating geese can hear. But who am I to complain?   I couldn't sing in key if my life depended on it. If someone threatened me with bodily harm and demanded I hit the right note, I'd probably just apologize and start writing my will.

But those pink Pyramid label 45s — those are the ones that make the heart do that tiny cartoon boing sound. You spot that shade of pink peeking out in a crate and suddenly you’re a prospector in the Gold Rush, except instead of a pickaxe you’re armed with caffeine, hope, and a highly trained record sniffing instinct.

It’s always the same ritual: You flip past a few battered country promos, a stack of battered yacht rock 45s that survived three hurricanes, a polka record that has seen things… and then — there it is. That pink. That label. That moment where your pulse politely accelerates like, “Sir, we may have a situation.”

Some of those Pyramid 45s really are worth their weight in gold, and even the ones that aren’t still feel like you’ve uncovered a secret handshake from North Carolina history. They’re little artifacts of regional magic — the kind of records that make crate digging feel like treasure hunting instead of “I’m crouched on a concrete floor wondering why my knees (and spine) hate me.”

Enjoy the tune—and unlike my spine, hopefully it stays in alignment 

Darlene And Darla - In Your Imagination/Eternal Love

A romantic Thursday deserves a little swoon, a little shimmer, a little needle‑drop magic from the girl‑group dreamworld I step into- an elegant, mischievous, atmospheric glow if you like — the kind that feels like a slow‑motion turn of a jukebox dial.

I brought home another 45 from the flea market — one more gamble in that glorious stack of 250 little mysteries. Many such as this are mysteries from the past, each one dare a listen. And when I hit on a good one, it’s not just luck. It’s vindication. A tiny triumph. A private celebration only the collector understands.

Yesterday it was Chris Bailey murmuring Love or Imagination, and today Darlene and Darla drift in like twin sirens, offering In Your Imagination — early‑’60s romance in its purest form. That era didn’t flirt; it floated. It didn’t confess; it sighed. Love wasn’t a plotline, it was a dream state, a soft-focus world where harmonies curled around you like perfume.

Back then, the imagination did the heavy lifting. Back then, the heart got to invent its own scenery. Back then, the music left space — delicious space — for longing. Today’s music and TV spell everything out, leaving nothing to mystery, nothing to wonder. But this little 45 — the one I took a chance on — brings back the lost art of romantic suggestion, the kind that lets you fill in the shadows yourself.

It’s a Thursday built for that kind of romance: the kind that hums, the kind that glows, the kind that feels like a secret whispered through a transistor radio.

The Saints- Temple Of The Lord/Love Or Imagination

I was super surprised when I picked this up — a U.S. promo Saints 45 that somehow isn’t on Sire. It’s the kind of anomaly that makes collectors tilt their heads like confused owls. You start wondering if some rogue A&R guy in 1986 just said, “Eh, let’s press a few and see what happens,” then wandered off to lose his job at TVT.

Apparently the video even got MTV rotation, though I have zero memory of that. To be fair, I wasn’t watching much MTV at the time because I was buried under textbooks, caffeine, ramen, and  existential dread that pairs beautifully with late‑70s Australian punk with the kind of sleep schedule that makes raccoons look responsible. 

I used to see Saints LPs on TVT for cheap — the kind of cheap where you assume the shrink‑wrap is hiding a fatal flaw, like warped vinyl living inside the jacket. But I never bought one until I found a radio‑station copy in Colorado Springs two years ago. Beautiful condition… except for the station’s call letters scrawled across the cover in marker so large it could be seen from orbit. Classic radio‑station behavior: “We love this record so much we’re going to vandalize it.” Nothing says “collectible” like graffiti from a bored DJ.

The Saints even toured last year with Mark Arm from Mudhoney stepping in for Chris Bailey, who we lost four years ago. I’ve watched clips of this version of the band, and while Mark is great, replacing Chris Bailey is like trying to replace the sun with a really bright desk lamp. And honestly, Mark couldn’t be replaced in Mudhoney either — some front men just come factory‑installed. and are so baked into the DNA of their bands that swapping them out would cause a minor tear in the fabric of punk reality.

The Doors- Roadhouse Blues / You Make Me Real

Somehow, in the long, proud, and occasionally chaotic history of this blog, I managed to skip over one of the greatest bands of all time—The Doors. Yes, really. It’s like writing a food blog and forgetting pizza exists. How did I miss Jim and the boys? Was I distracted? Was I temporarily replaced by a pod person? We may never know.

Blame my grandfather for my love of the Doors—in the best possible way. During one of our legendary flea market expeditions (where you go in looking for treasure and leave with…mystery cords and a lamp shaped like a fish), he handed me a Doors album. That was it. No dramatic speech, no warning label—just “Here, try this.” I never looked back. I also never trusted flea markets the same way again—they change you.

Now, let’s address the elephant in the room: there are two types of people—Doors lovers (me) and Doors haters. There is no neutral ground. You don’t just casually listen to The Doors. You either vibe with Jim Morrison’s poetic chaos or you’re sitting there wondering if he’s about to summon something and you wish he would just STOP.

For me, “Roadhouse Blues”—technically the B-side—was always the main event. And it contains one of the greatest lyrics ever written: “I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer.”

Now, do I have a philosophical explanation for why that line is genius? Absolutely not. Does it align with my personal beliefs? Not even close. Do I recommend that lifestyle? Definitely not. In fact, (my public service announcement for this week) if that’s your morning routine, please reach out to someone for help—maybe not Jim Morrison.

But still…there’s something about that line. It’s brutally honest. It’s simple. It’s…alarmingly efficient storytelling. Of course, it also hints at the reality of Jim’s life, which wasn’t exactly a wellness retreat. It’s kind of wild to imagine what would’ve happened if The Doors had lasted as long as The Rolling Stones. Then again, knowing their history, that idea feels about as realistic as Jim Morrison hosting a morning talk show.

And honestly, if he had stuck around that long, you have to wonder if John, Robbie, and Ray could’ve kept him in line…or if they’d have collectively lost their minds and started a support group. I watched an interview Billy Corgan did with Robbie Krieger, and at one point Billy starts talking about No One Gets Out of Here Alive — you know, the Doors book that basically turned every teenager into a temporary mystic. He says it opened his eyes to the authors Jim Morrison devoured, and I had to laugh because it did the same thing to me. One minute I’m reading about the Doors, and the next I’m knee‑deep in Kerouac and Huxley, like I tripped into a literary swamp where every author is yelling “Expand your mind!” while I’m just trying to find my shoes. And somehow that wild writing grabbed me by the collar and said, “We’re doing this forever now,” and honestly, I haven’t looked back since.

But back to the music—because that’s what keeps pulling me in. There’s just something magical about those 1960s Elektra white label promos. They don’t just play music—they practically dare you to go digging for more. And I’m only missing a few Doors promo 45 pieces now, which means one thing:

Time to dive back into the crates…because apparently my self-control is still out on tour.

The Nu-Trons -Wild Side / Tension

What a brutally hot weekend we had. I was planning to use my weed eater to get rid of the weeds growing through my brick patio, but the heat was so intense I was afraid I'd melt faster than the Wicked Witch of the West. The weeds looked at me, looked at the thermometer, and basically said, "We'll see you in October."

The Nu-Trons have a Wild Side, but I really don't. I used to be a lot wilder in my younger days. Back then, "Hold my beer" sounded like the beginning of an adventure. Now it sounds like the beginning of a trip to the emergency room.

At some point, age teaches you that getting wild can be detrimental to your health and create unwanted Tension. (See what I did there?) These days my idea of living on the edge is mowing the lawn when the heat index is below 90 and eating ice cream before dinner.

Besides, the weeds aren't going anywhere. They're apparently tougher than I am and seem to be thriving in conditions normally reserved for baking pizzas.  Besides, heat stroke, is a lousy lawn care companion