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.

Clarence "Frogman" Henry - You Can't Hide A Tear/ I Told My Pillow

The whole house felt different yesterday — like the air itself paused. Princess Rian sitting in the window all day over the spot that Tazzie spent her last few weeks… that wasn’t just a cat staring outside. That was a sister keeping vigil. She chose Tazzie’s place, the way grief chooses the places that still smell like someone we miss. Cats don’t perform emotion; they just feel it, and she felt it deeply.

I spent some time yesterday reflecting…yes, reflecting over a cat, with my memories wrapped in warmth:

Tazzie’s story didn’t start in a quiet home — it started in Mina’s wild little kingdom. Mina, our rebellious queen of the outdoors, bringing her four babies on the patio like, “Hello, we are home.” Four tiny chaos beans tumbling around, chasing shadows, ignoring the perfectly good cat house I bought and assembled for them like a responsible adult. They chose the patio because of course cats always pick the thing you didn’t buy.

Then the disappearances. Two yellow tabbies gone overnight, like they slipped into another dimension. Princess Rian up a tree with two dogs plotting her downfall and me to the rescue. Mina furious at a weeklong indoor captivity after I captured her and had her fixed and me watching over the remaining two like a worried dad who pretends he’s not worried.

And then in May 2022 — the month everything changed. Cooper arrives, a puppy with the energy of a malfunctioning wind-up toy. Tazzie and Princess Rian watching him sprint around the yard like he’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy. Cooper watching them like they’re magical woodland creatures. All three of them were probably born on the same day, destined to be this strange little trio.

In June 2022 I finally brought the girls inside, Princess Rian became the world’s most committed hider. Under the bed. Under the treadmill. Under anything that could hide a princess. Tazzie, meanwhile, stayed quiet, observant, a little fragile. Infections as a kitten, a body that always needed a little extra care.

And then a few days later came, Bobbi -now Meep Meep — the chaos agent who named herself (story to come) arriving like a tiny lightning bolt. She and Tazzie playing, chasing, mischievous, nudging Princess Rian out of her shell, turning her into the social butterfly she eventually became. Tazzie stayed the watcher, the quiet one, the tender one, and now the skittish one. The one who didn’t demand love but soaked it in when it came.

She had a small life in some ways — gentle, careful, observant — but she had a full life. Loved by all, loved by her sister, loved by Cooper, loved by the whole house. And yesterday, the house remembered with continued tears.

Carl Phillips - Salty Dog Blues / Summer Vacation

The house feels different now. I keep catching myself looking toward the hallway in the evenings, expecting to see Tazzie stretched out in her usual spot — that little queen-of-the-corridor pose she always took when she knew treats were coming. It’s strange how quickly a routine becomes a heartbeat in a home, and how sharply you feel it when it stops.

Over the weekend, when her abdomen looked wrong and she wouldn’t eat, I tried not to panic. But I knew. And yesterday morning, sitting in that vet’s office, hearing “likely FIP,” hearing the cost, hearing the lack of guarantees… it felt like the world dropped out from under me. Four and a half. Too young. Too sudden. Too cruel.

She was always a little skittish — sweet, but selective. She had her rotation of secret hideouts, claiming one corner of the house like a tiny landlord for a few weeks before moving on to the next. But when I sat on the floor to give treats, she’d come right into my lap. That was her softness, the part she didn’t show everyone.

Holding her that last time… she purred. She never purred like that in moments like this. I think she knew. I think she was telling me she felt safe. And I think the other cats knew too — the way they moved around the house yesterday, the way the energy shifted. Animals understand more than we ever give them credit for.

Even Cooper had his own little ritual with her. Every night, when I took him out, he’d run up to her and give her that big goofy lick on the top of her head. She’d tolerate it — barely — with that “ugh, dog slobber” expression, but she always let him. It was their weird little bond, even if she preferred her twin sister Princess Rian’s company.

Now the hallway is empty. Her spots are empty. And I feel it everywhere.

It’s wild how animals work their way into your heart — how they become part of the architecture of your days. Losing them is never small. It’s never simple. And she will be missed. Not just as one of the cats. As Tazzie. As herself.

Bobby And The Blue Denims - Stop and Go

Wicked cool instrumental from Bobby and the Blue Denims? Buddy, this thing doesn’t just sound cool — it leans against the wall in a Levi jacket, smirks, and asks if you’ve got a light.

I’m picturing the whole band rolling into the studio like a denim‑clad biker gang of musicians. Jackets faded from actual life experience, guitars slung over shoulders like they’re about to duel, sax player strolling in with that “I only play riffs that make people raise an eyebrow” confidence. Cigarette dangling, not even lit — just there for aesthetic purposes, like a prop in a noir film.

They don’t ask where to set up. They announce it by plugging in wherever they feel like. The rhythm section kicks in with that “we’ve been doing this since the Eisenhower administration” authority. The guitar starts grooving like it’s trying to flirt with the mixing board. And the sax player? He blows a simple riff that somehow feels like a threat, a promise, and a pickup line all at once.

It’s pure attitude — the kind of track that doesn’t walk into a room, it struts.