Blue Ash - Anytime At All/She's So Nice

 ‘I’m sitting here with my cup of coffee — which at this point is less a beverage and more a spiritual advisor and realizing — once again — I’ve got too many cover versions for one week. It’s like they breed when I’m not looking. So yes, August is getting another Cover Week, because apparently my life is now scheduled around rogue cover songs and less a programming choice and more a recurring geological event. No more marathon medleys, though; I’m retiring those before they retire me. Still, the mix will be good — eclectic, eccentric, and probably requiring a small emotional support beverage- might I suggest New Mexico Piñon Coffee.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a stack of 45s glaring at me from across the room like, “Buddy, you said you’d get to us.” I’m staring at the calendar, trying to sketch out a plan… a map to musical enlightenment… or at least a well organized cacophony of pleasantness. I’ll settle for pleasantness. Enlightenment feels like a stretch before 9 a.m.

Today’s offering is a 45 I picked up in Colorado Springs back in March — and of course there’s a backstory, because with me there’s always a backstory. Flashback to December 2024: we went to Colorado for Christmas to surprise Mom, and I hit a few record stores (as one does). This 45 was sitting in a bin, practically waving at me, and I… did not buy it. I told myself I’d come back later in the week, but time slipped away like a drummer who didn’t show up for rehearsal.

Fast‑forward to March: I return, dig through the bins, and it’s GONE. Missing. Abducted. Ascended. But then I notice the owner had moved some 45 bins, and there it was — waiting for me like a cosmic prank. This time I didn’t hesitate. I lunged. I pounced. I became the apex predator of the record store. I may have hissed. I cannot confirm.

Which brings me to today’s burning question: were the Beatles fashionable in 1974–75? Blue Ash apparently thought so. Sure, the solo Beatles were all over the radio, but I don’t remember hearing much actual Beatles. Then again, I was just discovering rock and roll from the school bus radio, and they were definitely not playing Blue Ash. Honestly, looking back I am not sure they were playing much cool music at all. Don’t get me wrong — plenty of fantastic stuff from that era still lives on my playlist — but music was already barreling down the disco highway, and that particular exit is not one I take unless forced by circumstance or hostage situation.

Blue Ash might make another appearance here someday, if the record cosmos decide to open up the cosmic causeways and drop a 45 from my want list directly into my hands. I’m ready, universe. I’ve got shelf space. Probably. Maybe. Let’s not check.

 

Soul Asylum- Standing In The Doorway/James At 16 (Heavy Medley)

I recently “misplaced” this record, which is my polite way of saying it yeeted itself into the void and refused to answer texts. But it finally found its way back to its proper location. And where was it, you ask?

Oh, buckle up.

Months ago, I pulled my Soul Asylum 12" singles out to record, and apparently this one decided to go on a spiritual journey. I had a couple of Love LPs on the shelf with my 12” singles, so naturally I moved the Love records to the shelf behind my office desk. Fast forward to last week: I’m browsing that shelf for something to spin, and suddenly—There it is. Soul Asylum, sandwiched between two Love LPs like the world’s most unlikely ménage à trois. A configuration so improbable it could destabilize the moral fabric of a small town. This is why you never underestimate vinyl. One minute it’s alphabetized and behaving, the next it’s sneaking off to have a torrid affair with Arthur Lee’s back catalog.

But back to Wednesday’s 12" single presentation? Worth the price of admission — if I charged admission, which I don’t, because then I’d have to hire ushers, and they’d unionize, and suddenly I’m testifying before Congress about why my record collection has labor disputes.

The A side is, of course, a Soul Asylum original — no mystery there. But the cover version chaos kicks in the moment they decide, “Hey, what if we just… mashed half the record store together and called it a medley?” It’s the kind of arrangement that probably made the lawyers sit bolt upright, spill their coffee, and immediately start a group chat titled “ROYALTY NIGHTMARE — URGENT.”

They open with a nod to their hometown hero Prince — because of course who would expect that— and then, without warning, they swerve straight into Velvet Underground, then yank the wheel again and crash through The Godfathers territory. When the forensic audio dust finally settles, it turns out you’ve mashed together so many bands that the lab techs have started a betting pool. There are Eagles harmonies flapping around the evidence room, Ted Nugent riffs charging at anyone holding a clipboard, and Gang of Four rhythms staging a tiny revolution in the corner. If you tried to list every group involved, you wouldn’t be writing liner notes — you’d be drafting a manuscript the size of Minnesota, complete with a map, a glossary, and a warning that says “Do not attempt this medley at home.” It’s like they made a playlist, shook it like a snow globe, and recorded whatever fell out.

Wicked. Absolutely wicked.

Colin Blunstone - Tracks Of My Tears

Sliding into Tuesday felt like it needed a little elegance, so I queued up Colin Blunstone’s smooth‑as‑fresh‑pavement cover of Tracks of My Tears. One of the all‑time great songs — the kind you can’t even hum without accidentally feeling profound — and the voice of the Zombies does exactly what you expect: floats in like a polite ghost and makes everything sound expensive.

I could have done without that drum track, which arrives like someone in the studio said, “Hey, should we add something that absolutely no one asked for?” But Blunstone’s vocals more than make up for it. He could sing a grocery list and still make you rethink your dinner plans. A classy Tuesday glide, minor percussion crimes notwithstanding.

The Challengers - Pipeline/Asphalt Spinner

Impromptu cover week has officially begun — and by “impromptu,” I mean “half planned, half accidentally tripped into it like a man who thought he was walking into the kitchen but somehow ended up in the garage.” I knew I had plenty ready, but I didn’t realize I had plenty ready until after the gospel upload, so technically you’re only getting six days. Consider it a spiritual discount.

I feel like I’m drowning in 45s, and Sunday found me sitting in the middle of a vinyl hurricane, boxes of 45s stacked around me like I was reenacting the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of priceless artifacts it was “stuff I swear I’ll organize someday.” I listened to a bunch I’d never spun before, giving each the classic 10 second preview — the musical equivalent of sniffing leftovers to see if they’re still good. If it passed the sniff test, I listened more. If it slapped, I recorded it. Honestly, not a bad Sunday for a man buried alive in cardboard.

And then there’s this Challengers cover — hanging around like a bad penny, if pennies still existed and weren’t just cryptids we tell children about. It’s a blazin’ take on Pipeline, big production, big energy, big “I dare you not to grin like an idiot.” I can’t think of a better way to start a Monday unless someone invents a coffee that also pays your bills.

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