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

The Sunset Travelers - Wonderful Jesus / Hide Me

I hope everyone stayed cool and safe on the 4th. While preparing this post, I discovered a post I was actually planning to share yesterday for Independence Day. Now I face a true crisis: do I post it in a few weeks and hope nobody notices, or do I put it in storage for an entire year like some sort of patriotic heirloom? Decisions, decisions.

Poor Cooper is not a fan of firecrackers, so I had to crate him for a while last night as the neighborhood enthusiastically reenacted several famous battles. Every boom seemed to confirm his suspicion that civilization was ending.

And I sure as hell did not stay up to watch the Washington, DC fireworks. At my age, choosing sleep over explosions isn't a sign of weakness—it's wisdom.

Time for Peacock Gospel Sunday. Sometimes it feels like I've accidentally joined a peacock congregation, and honestly, I'm quite satisfied with that. I was not able to find a lot of information on the Sunset Travelers, other than the fact that they seemed to have a revolving-door membership policy. If you stood still too long near the group, you may have ended up in it.

I did learn, much to my surprise, that soul singer O.V. Wright was a member at one time, which definitely caught me off guard. Every once in a while, these rabbit holes actually lead somewhere interesting. Unfortunately for those hoping to hear him, he was not on this particular release.

I managed to record a few 45's yesterday, including this one. And, in what may be the most shocking development of the weekend, I found the Jackie Wilson and Chi-Lites 45 quite quickly. Anyone who has ever watched me search for a record knows this borders on the supernatural. It's on the recording docket for today.

Terry & The Pyrats – Falling In Love

This has that wonderfully amateurish ‘60s garage sound that I love—the kind of recording that sounds like it was tracked in a one-car garage between lawnmower repairs. Is it the definitive example of the genre? Not even close. But I’m an archivist at heart. I collect the weird stuff, the lost stuff, the “why does this exist?” stuff. If it makes my ear perk up like a confused terrier, I’m saving it.

Was this comped? Honestly, I have no earthly idea. It might have been comped, or it might have simply materialized one night like a cursed object in a folklore story. But it’s now officially part of the Noize universe, and once something enters the Noize universe, it’s like being bitten by a radioactive spider—there’s no undoing it.

Now, the sharp‑eyed among you may notice this is Side 2, and that Side 1 is mysteriously absent. The explanation is simple: the A‑side was catastrophically, heroically bad. We’re talking the kind of bad that makes dogs howl, milk curdle, and grown adults stare into the middle distance reconsidering every decision that led them to this moment. A true audio crime scene. CSI: Turntable. That’s seriously sad considering the cosmic level of hope their name promised. I mean, with a name like that, I was fully prepared—no, spiritually primed—for a psychedelic flip‑out so intense it would rearrange my furniture, open a wormhole in the laundry room, and cause at least one neighbor to report “strange shimmering lights” to Homeland Security. Instead, the A‑side just sat there like a damp sponge, radiating disappointment and the faint smell of old carpet.

In fact, this 45 is the perfect lesson in why you should always flip a record over before deciding whether it belongs in the keeper box or the donation pile. Sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the back. And sometimes the front side is doing its absolute best to keep you from ever finding it.