Leonard Wayne and the Impacts - That's All I Want To Do / You Didn't Have To Laugh

Back to work, baby — and nothing gets my brain firing on all cylinders like dropping the needle on some sweet, obscure wax while I pretend, I’m a highly organized adult with a functioning schedule.

So here I am, easing into this short work week like a man who’s already halfway out the door. Tomorrow is going to be a whole cinematic experience. I’m off for a doctor’s appointment — and not the quick “in‑and‑out, here’s a sticker” kind. No, I’ve got the deluxe package: a 75‑mile drive, a needle poke, a couple scans, and then, because I’m me, the sacred ritual of crate digging as a reward for surviving modern medicine. Honestly, it’s the most accurate snapshot of my life: Wake up → drive forever → get poked → get scanned → immediately look for obscure 45s like a Pacman who only eats vinyl. It’s glamorous in the way only my version of glamorous can be.

Of course, tomorrow also comes with the CEU call — the kind you have to listen to in the truck while driving back from the doctor, nodding along like “yes, absolutely, very important information,” even though you’re really thinking about lunch. But hey, free CEUs? I’ll take those as I’m a responsible professional!

Thursday and Friday work days are stacked like a pair of overstuffed jukeboxes. After that? Next week is mine. A well‑deserved rest. A spiritual reset. A chance to remember what silence sounds like but silence is absolutely not on the menu — not when I’ve got the new Dinosaur Jr album queued up and ready to blast at full Spinal Tap 11, the setting reserved for moments of deep reflection, emotional clarity, and rattling the drywall.

Now, the soundtrack to this fine Tuesday: Leonard Wayne And The Impacts. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and the Hi‑Tones. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and whoever happened to be standing in the studio that day. The release history is murkier than a thrift‑store mystery box, but the 45 itself? Absolute fire.

“That’s All I Want To Do” and “You Didn’t Have To Laugh” — two sides of a record that feel like they were pressed specifically to make my morning better. The version I’ve got is probably the first pressing, based on the scant detective work I’ve done (picture me squinting at matrix numbers like a noir gumshoe). But whatever its lineage, it’s killer. The kind of killer that makes you forget you’re technically supposed to be working.

And speaking of killer — the parts for my ultrasonic record cleaner finally arrived yesterday. Tonight, if the stars align correctly (and if Cooper doesn’t decide he needs emergency attention), I’ll be assembling that thing like a mad scientist building a vinyl‑restoration death ray. If it works, my 45s are about to get spa‑day clean.

But until then? Enjoy this mysterious, punchy, collector‑bait 45, A salute to Tuesday: short week, sweet sounds, mysterious pressings, and the eternal hunt for free CEUs.

Annette - The Monkeys Uncle

A glorious day off — the kind where the dark, the stars and the quarter moon, and the slight breeze hit just right and Super Cooper The Wonder Dog strutted around like he personally negotiated the weather. After our walk (where he led, and I merely followed like his unpaid intern), I did the usual: shower, coffee, pretend I’m a functioning adult.

Then it happened. My distracted brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Hey… what if we went into the spare room and surrounded yourself in 45s?” And like a fool, I listened. Next thing I know, I’m knee‑deep in boxes of 45s, pulling them out like I’m on some archaeological dig for tiny vinyl relics. I swear my world must want to crush me under endless piles of 45s — like a Looney Tunes gag but with more obscure labels and regional pressings.

So now I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by stacks of 45s to clean, play, and “enjoy,” which is code for “rediscover the same records I’ve already rediscovered twelve times.”

Eventually, I became un‑distracted (a rare event when it comes to records) and checked what I’d recorded over the past month for my Monday surf/drag theme. And there it was: Annette Funicello with the Beach Boys.

Instant childhood flashback.

I remember watching that movie as a kid — all those Disney flicks where everything was sunny, wholesome, and slightly weird. The opening credits rolled, Annette and the Beach Boys kicked in, and tiny me thought, This is the greatest song ever recorded by humans. So explain to me how this wasn’t a hit? The Beach Boys were at the top of their game. They could’ve sung the phone book and charted.

Maybe if Buena Vista had slapped “BEACH BOYS” across the sleeve in giant letters instead of pretending they were just some guys Annette found at a beach rental, it might’ve had a chance. But no — Capitol probably pulled their classic “We’re being (oh I wanted to use dirty words) today” routine and buried the credit like it was radioactive.

Annette says “everyday is Valentines,” so consider this my chalk‑candy kiss to you — the kind that tastes like sugar, nostalgia, and a little bit of surf‑rock injustice.

 

Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama - To That Land/A Letter To A Mother's Son

Last night my Fitbit swore I slept like a tranquilized koala, but wearable tech is basically that coworker who confidently gives advice about things they know nothing about. It’s not my body — it’s just a tiny wrist narc collecting data and making bold assumptions about how I “should” feel.

Reality check: I woke up more than an hour before the coffee timer even thought about doing its job. I stayed in bed, grabbed a few extra minutes of actual human sleep, and when the coffee finally kicked off, I got up and got dressed. Cooper looked at me like, “Dude… it’s not even 5 a.m. yet. Seek help.”

But off we went, hitting the sidewalks like two fugitives from the Land of Insomnia. I had Underground Garage on Sirius in my headphones because Coast to Coast AM was deep into one of those topics that makes you question whether the callers have ever interacted with a real human being.

As we walked, my brain tried to drag me down the Negative Nellie Trail — the roof situation, the ultrasonic record cleaner deciding to reenact a Greek tragedy (new parts tomorrow), the washing machine still down with the repair place shrugging like, “Parts? Who knows.” My mind was basically auditioning for the role of “Guy Who Catastrophizes Before Sunrise.”

And then I saw him — a man riding a bicycle way too small for him, balancing a giant trash bag full of clothes on his way to the laundromat. I’ve been to the laundromat recently more times than I want to count, sure, but I went in a car. I know each wash is six bucks. He’s probably spending twenty, then pedaling home like a pack mule.

And suddenly my complaints evaporated. I have shelter. Food. A working dryer. A life full of material comforts and blessings. The roof will get replaced. The machines will get fixed. The chaos will settle. These trials aren’t punishments — they’re reminders. GOD is telling me to trust Him, and I do.

Now, onto today’s musical sermon: The Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama — if you believe the cogs of dis chaos — released only three records, and this one, “To That Land / A Letter To A Mother’s Son,” is the only one under that exact name. The other two came out with slight name variations, and their first record was on Ascot, of all labels — pre‑Manfred Mann era, back when Ascot was still figuring out what it wanted to be when it grew up. And yes, I know this sleeve doesn’t belong with the Peacock 45, but honestly? It looks biblically cool, so it stays.

Tikis & Fabulons - Take A Minute/For Your Love

I’m kicking off this three‑day weekend with a garage raver that hits like it’s been waiting all week for me to drop the needle. Then I flip it over and—of course—the B‑side turns out to be a moody ballad that might be even better. And yes, it’s a cover version, even though we are absolutely not in cover‑version week. Sometimes I have to fudge the rules a little. It’s not like I’m filing shady taxes or doing anything that gets you locked up. It’s just music, and I’m a creature of habit who occasionally wanders off the path for something irresistible.

And look at this label. Panorama. It’s practically shouting, “Observe me from near and far!” It’s one of those cool regional designs that makes you stop and admire it before you even play the record. The song itself is a Portland, Oregon gem that Tower later picked up… and then did absolutely nothing with. No success, no traction, just another great track lost in the shuffle until I pulled it out and gave it a proper spin.

Marvelle Hampton - I Truly Believe (In Love)/I Know How It Feels

I’m running on fumes this morning, — the kind of tired where your soul is still in bed but your body is upright out of sheer contractual obligation. These late‑night football games are gonna be the end of me. I swear the Colorado Buffaloes wait until I’m half‑asleep to pull off something dramatic, just so I can stagger around the next day like a man who’s been through a small emotional war. But hey, they beat Georgia Tech, so I guess I’ll allow it.

No walk for Cooper today — he looked at me like, “Really? We’re skipping my morning patrol?” Meanwhile I'm over here trying to negotiate with my eyelids like they’re free agents demanding a better contract. At least I’ve got that three‑day weekend coming up, which feels like the promised land. I can practically hear my future nap calling out to me like a gospel choir.

So here I sit, clutching my coffee like it’s the last lifeline on Earth, and at the very last minute I decide, “You know what this morning needs? Marvelle Hampton.” And honestly, that’s a power move. Sweet soul sounds to soothe the football‑induced chaos rattling around my skull.

Naturally — in true collector geek fashion — I recorded the B‑side first. It’s the “preferred” side, the one with that secret‑handshake energy. But I realize the A‑side is boss with a capital B, and I'm questioning why I gave in to the soul collectors preference recording order, my sleep schedule, and possibly the entire concept of alphabetical sequencing.

Sandy Waddy - Everything Is Everything/Secret Love

Yesterday was brutally hot -it wasn’t just hot — it was soul‑singer‑in-a-polyester-suit-on-stage hot. The kind of heat that makes the air shimmer like a Hammond organ and leaves me moving slow, like a ballad that refuses to rush. I’m just hoping it cools down by the time my little respite vacation in a week‑and‑a‑half rolls around. I’m not going anywhere fancy (roof fund says “absolutely not”), but honestly, staying home and slipping into some crate digging sounds like the kind of healing my spirit actually needs.

There’s something about flipping through dusty boxes that brings me joy?  Every sleeve is a memory, every label a heartbeat. And nothing lights me up like Girl sounds and soul — and, let’s be real, just about every other style of music too… lol.

Take Sandy, for example. One 45. Just one. It’s wild. She drops this single on Sound Of Soul (S.O.S.), then Wand tries to give it a second life, but the charts don’t budge. Two labels, no breakthrough moment. Just two labels giving it the old college try and the universe shrugging. It’s the kind of story that makes you shake your head — all that heart, all that hope, and the world just wasn’t listening.

 But now? Now the soul collectors know it — or so the internet tells me. And we all know the internet does not lie. Ever. Not once. Completely infallible. Practically a sacred text.

Still, that lone Sandy 45? It’s got that magic. That little spark. That quiet ache. That reminder that sometimes one song is enough to leave a mark. The kind of thing I’d find in a dusty box and immediately feel 12% happier. The kind of record that makes my whole staycation feel musically important.

And speaking of the old college try, my brain is saying "hey it's College Football" season which means I’ve got football on the brain today, and my Colorado Buffaloes are lining up against Georgia Tech tonight. Everywhere I look, the national sports media is acting like this is already GT’s game. They talk about Prime like he’s some kind of sideshow, like the student‑athletes don’t exist, like the work this team has put in somehow doesn’t count.

But I see what they’ve built. I see the talent, the coaching, the discipline, the fire, the focus. I see a team that is being underestimated and we will see if that changes after they leave the field tonight — and I’ve got a damn good feeling about them and about this season.

People are going to be surprised tonight. People are going to learn something about Colorado. And I’m going to be right here for every snap.

SKO BUFFS.

Jim Dickinson and The Catmando Quartet - Monkey Man/Shake'Em On Down

I swear, my Law of Household Appliances is undefeated: if it has a motherboard, it will eventually decide it’s had enough of your nonsense and die dramatically. My Humminguru joined the Great Electronic Exodus this weekend, and from what I can tell, the motherboard just… quit. Clocked out. Took its lunch break and never came back. Exactly like the washing machine. I’m starting to think modern devices are built out of compressed hopes and recycled potato chips.

I reached out to them, and hopefully it won’t cost me much to fix, because nothing reminds you how much you love a machine until you’re suddenly hand‑cleaning records like it’s 1958 and you’re auditioning for a job at Sun Records. I have officially joined the lazy generation, and I’m not going back. If the Humminguru doesn’t revive, I may hold a small memorial service.

Today’s feature: Jim Dickinson, producer extraordinaire, professional name‑drop magnet, and one of those guys whose résumé reads like he accidentally wandered into every major moment in American music history. The first time I saw his name was, of course, tied to Big Star and The Replacements — the gateway drugs for all respectable record nerds. But here he is in his early swamp‑rock‑blues days, fronting the Catmando Quartet before the Dixie Flyers ever existed.

And I learned some things I absolutely did not know. For example: he sang lead and played piano on a 45 by the Jesters on Sun Records even though he wasn’t in the group. Did he just walk in and do it. I have that 45, so expect it to show up here eventually like a guest star in a sitcom crossover episode.

In the 60's he formed the Dixie Flyers, who backed Bettye LaVette, Hank Ballard, James Carr, Albert Collins — basically everyone your record shelves whisper about at night. Then Atlantic Records got involved, and suddenly they’re recording with Aretha, Delaney & Bonnie, Jerry Jeff Walker, Dee Dee Warwick, Ronnie Hawkins, Sam & Dave, Dion, Brook Benton, Lulu, Sam the Sham, Esther Phillips… and oh yeah, Jim even played on Wild Horses with the Rolling Stones. There are documentaries about the Wrecking Crew and Muscle Shoals, but none on the Dixie Flyers, which feels like a crime against music nerd humanity. You can find bits and pieces on Jim on Youtube.

And the name‑dropping doesn’t stop. Dickinson produced Big Star’s Third — the greatest beautiful disaster ever pressed (a stunning record- my go to Big Star record even though it could be technically called an Alex Chilton solo lp and I bought an OG on PVC 30+ years ago for $10..hey, go ME) — but he also produced Willy DeVille, Green on Red, Mojo Nixon, Mudhoney, The Replacements (Pleased to Meet Me, the first Replacements album I bought new), Tav Falco’s Panther Burns, Toots & the Maytals, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. He worked with Ry Cooder, the Flamin’ Groovies, The Cramps, Bob Dylan, Kim Salmon from the Scientists. He even recorded with Sonic Boom from Spacemen 3. Holy smokes, this man was plugged into everything.

But here we have him at the very beginning, trying on the “maybe I could have a hit” version of himself — swampy, gritty, bluesy, and already cooler than any of us will ever be.