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.)

The Motions - Beatle Drums/Long-Hair

So the label geniuses sit around a table and go:

“Beatlemania is huge. People love drums. Let’s name the song… Beatle Drums. We’re basically guaranteed a hit.”

And the universe said: “Incorrect.”

Because nothing screams chart failure quite like trying to ride a cultural wave that already left the station, crossed three state lines, and is now living quietly under an assumed name. You’ve gotta admit, it’s a pretty slick surf‑y little burner — the kind of track that caught just enough regional buzz to make three counties feel special, but not enough to escape the gravitational pull of its hometown bowling alley. That’s peak sixties local‑band physics: make a cool song, impress the neighborhood, fail to conquer America, return to algebra class or the night shift.

It’s the same energy we also hear on the B side “Long Hair"… YEAH!” — the records that tried to cash in on the youth movement by sounding like someone’s little sister yelling at a jukebox.

Which brings us to my long hair era, a period historians will one day refer to as:

“His brief but glorious attempt at looking like a long haired hipster.”

My wife — not my wife yet, but already fully operating in executive decision mode — flew in from Florida to visit me in Colorado in the early 90's. She stepped off the plane, took one look at my glorious mane, and delivered her verdict with the confidence of someone who had already made up her mind somewhere over Kansas:

“That’s got to go.”

No debate. No gentle suggestion. Just immediate scissors‑energy.

And me? brave, romantic, slightly doomed — said: “Okay.” No hesitation. No negotiation. I folded faster than a promo 45 in a bargain bin. Because love makes you do wild things: cut your hair, move states, buy records you absolutely don’t need, and pretend “Beatle Drums” was ever going to chart.

And just to add to the confusion of life, I’m dealing with Motions (3) — yes, that Motions — the one off the cogs of Dis. And of course I have to remind myself not to mix them up with Motions (1), Motions (2), Motions (4), or Motions (5), because apparently there was a full‑on battle royale to be named The Motions.

I swear, at some point in the ’60s, five different groups must’ve walked into five different studios, all said “We’re The Motions,” and the engineers just shrugged and wrote numbers next to them like they were ordering combo meals.

It’s the kind of Discogs rabbit hole where I start questioning my own sanity — flipping a 45 over, squinting at the label, thinking, “Okay… which Motions are YOU?”

Honestly, it’s a miracle any of us survive record collecting with our minds intact.

The Scott Sisters - I'll Trade a Lifetime/As Long As I Got Jesus

I present another Scott Sisters 45 and find myself wondering: What do I write this week?

Last week I posted the second of the three 45s the Scott Sisters released, and, as is often the case with these little musical time capsules, there wasn’t much information to go on. Today, I present their first release—and quite possibly their most sought-after 45. Three records. Three years. Then…nothing.

And that, of course, is where the mystery begins. Looking at the songwriting credits on the labels, I suspect the sisters themselves may have written these songs. If so, that makes these records even more intriguing to me. There is something deeply personal in music when the people singing it are also the ones doing the thinking, writing, and creating. Their music carries that combination of creativity, introspection, and gospel infusion that makes you wonder what else was happening in their lives beyond these few precious minutes captured on vinyl.

And then they disappear from the record trail. I hope they simply went on creating in other ways. Perhaps they remained active in their congregation, raised families, served their communities, and lived long, happy, well-spent lives— the kind that never makes headlines but leaves fingerprints on hearts. Maybe the music stopped, but the service didn’t. There’s something humbling about that thought.

We collectors spend a lot of time chasing records, trying to uncover who made them, where they went, and why they vanished. But occasionally the mystery reminds me that the record may not have been the most important thing they left behind. Maybe it was the life they lived after the music. And I’ll admit: thinking about them makes me reflect on my own life. Records are wonderful things to collect—but lives are meant to be lived, and hopefully, to be of some service to others.  I pray I can be of more service to others.

So here’s to the Scott Sisters: three 45s, a little mystery, some beautiful music, and a reminder that sometimes the story beyond the record is the one worth wondering about most — maybe the rest of their legacy was lived, not pressed.

San Diego Misfits -I Wanna Be Your Lover Man / Going Where The Girls Are

Yes, I’m late posting today — but listen, I’ve already lived an entire mini‑lifetime before 10 a.m. First stop: the laundromat, because our washing machine has been broken for two weeks and Electrolux sat on their fat behinds and decided it will not be examined until the 24th. Thank you, Electrolux, you magnificent bastages. Truly the Picasso of inconvenient scheduling.

Then I hit some yard sales, because I woke up with that delusional collector confidence — the “today’s the day I find a $500 Northern Soul banger for a quarter” energy. Can you say NOT. I found exactly zero treasures and one ceramic clown that looked like it wanted to steal my soul.

So, in honor of my lateness and my complete lack of yard‑sale glory, I’m giving you boys and girls something special — maybe even the only surviving copy in the world. You might think I’m exaggerating, but honestly? I might not be. Stranger things have happened. (Like those psych and soul 45s, including this one, magically teleporting to Clayton, NC — still unsolved, still weird.)

Let me back up. I bought this mystery disc a few years ago in a massive haul of 8,000 45s. Most of it was your standard “why did anyone press this?” material — the kind of stuff that makes you question both humanity and the concept of vinyl as a medium — but tucked inside were several boxes of absolute killer extremely rare West Coast psych and soul. And because it was an all‑or‑nothing deal, I had to pull the plug and take the whole mountain home. Ouch, indeed. My wallet still wakes up screaming and my wife reminds me as well.  And in the middle of that psychedelic treasure chest sat this thing — a test pressing so obscure it practically hisses, “You’re not supposed to have me.”

Naturally, I had to sleuth. I started with the Troy label, where the Cogs of Dis lists an 8-inch acetate of the A side track — except the B‑side was the same song without the audience screams. My copy doesn’t list a B‑side title, but it’s obviously a different cut — the lyrics keep shouting “Going Where The Girls Are,” and when I asked Shazam for help, it basically told me to take a hike. Full digital shrug. So I’m rolling with that. If the universe wants to correct me, it can send a surviving Misfit to my doorstep with a label copy and a handwritten apology.

Here’s the kicker: This appears to be an unreleased test pressing by the San Diego Misfits, featuring Bob Mosley, who later joined Moby Grape. Possibly the only surviving test pressing of this on Troy. Possibly the only copy, period. Possibly something that should’ve come out but didn’t, which is a crime against garage‑psych humanity.

If any surviving San Diego Misfits members are out there, please explain yourselves. We deserve answers. And maybe a reissue. Honestly, you can always purchase it from me and reissue it properly — hint hint, Get Hip, The Numero Group, Light In The Attic — just make sure you give me credit for finding the damn thing in the first place. I’m the one who rescued it from an 8,000‑record avalanche and gave it a second chance at daylight. The least you can do is slap my name somewhere in the liner notes, preferably in a font size visible from space.

hhh

Johnny Honeycutt - I'm Coming Over/If You Love Me

I’m glad it’s Friday — the kind of glad where you walk into the day like you’ve got theme music playing behind you. This week has been the kind of awful where even your coffee looks at you like, “Damn, man… again?”  I keep trying to find the perfect week for a vacation, but that’s a fairy tale. My schedule isn’t going to magically behave; it’s a wild animal that knocks over furniture and chews electrical cords. So I’m done negotiating. I’m picking a week, claiming it like stolen treasure, and letting the chaos sort itself out.

But until that escape hatch opens? I'm ending this week with a monster rare one — the kind of record that doesn’t just hide, it taunts. A 45 so scarce it probably travels under an alias, has a criminal record and travels with security. The sort of slab that slides out of its sleeve like, “You survived this week? Prove it.”  Perfect for closing out a week that tried to take me down hard, swung with everything it had, and still watched me walk away with full resilience and a record that practically growls.

The Righteous Brothers - This Little Girl Of Mine/If You're Lying You'll Be Crying

I woke up today needing a raver. I woke up and realized the whole damn house is grieving in its own weird choreography. Princess Rian has turned the window sill into her private shrine, staring out like she’s waiting for a sign from the universe or maybe just a bird dumb enough to land close. KC is sitting in a hallway chair he never sits in — which feels like the feline equivalent of wearing black to a funeral. Lilli is glued to the Princess like emotional Velcro. Meep Meep is still bouncing around, but even she’s got that distant, “I’m pretending everything’s normal but it’s not” vibe.

And me? I’m pacing around like a raver who lost the beat. I need the lights, the pulse, the sweat, the release — something to shake the grief loose before it calcifies.

They all look at me with those big, impossible eyes, like they’re asking, Why? And I don’t have a good answer. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m being human. Maybe I’m just tired of the universe handing me loss like it’s dealing cards in a rigged game.

Eight years since my dad. Then my mother‑in‑law. Then Bentley — sweet Bentley, whose picture used to sit right here on this blog like a little guardian.Then five cats. Five. And now Tazzie.

People say grief comes in waves. Mine feels like it’s been high tide for eight years.

I don’t think Tazzie is unlocking old grief — I’ve done that work, sat with each loss, let it hurt, let it heal. This one is different. This one is braided into everything else — the house repairs that keep multiplying like gremlins, the job that pulls me in every direction except the one where I can breathe, the world that feels like it’s spinning off its axis, the financial chaos that makes retirement look like a mirage I can see but not touch.

And here I am, writing for relief, and somehow depressing myself further. Classic me. But I laugh anyway — because if I don’t, I’ll sink.

I think about my Pop all the time. I’ll be doing something mundane — fixing something, walking Cooper, sorting records — and he’ll just show up in my head like he’s checking in. And my mother‑in‑law, who absolutely did not always like me, but still managed to deliver one of the funniest lines of her life when she asked when we were coming to see her and it was 6 months in to the Covid crisis and I said we couldn't travel because of Covid and she said: “Oh that is just a bullshit excuse.” I swear she said it with Olympic‑level conviction.

My wife says our pets will see us in Heaven. I believe, and I like the idea of getting smothered by all those dog and cat kisses. Bentley, Charlie Brown, Sara and Roxy barreling toward me. Tazzie curling up in my lap again. Julian doing whatever mischievous thing he’d do. A reunion of all the souls who made this house feel alive.

And maybe that’s the raver I need today — not the neon lights, but the reminder that love doesn’t vanish. It just changes rooms.