Nino Tempo and April Stevens- The Habit of Loving You Baby/You'll Be Needing Me Baby

Naturally — because I operate on a personal timeline known only to me, the moon, and Cooper the wonder dog, I decided to record the A‑side second. Bold. Avant‑garde. A little “I refuse to be constrained by linear time,” which honestly is the correct attitude for a 1966 chart‑bubbler.

So, we begin with The Habit of Loving You Baby, the flipped over B side and suddenly the room gets bigger, the lights get dimmer, with it doing its best Righteous Brothers slow‑burn impression. It’s got that “lean in, kid, this is the emotional payoff” vibe. It carries the room. It opens like a slow curtain, the kind of production that stretches out its arms and fills the space. There’s a deep‑blue resonance that feels like it’s echoing off the walls of some long‑closed nightclub. It hits the spot because it doesn’t rush; it lets the emotion pool in the corners.

The proposed A side, You’ll Be Needing Me Baby, a track (written by David Gates)  that politely knocked on the door of the Hot 100, peeked inside, and said, “Ah, no thanks, I’m good,” before settling at #133. It’s got that mid‑60s sheen — the kind of song that imagines itself wearing a matching suit just like the singers are wearing.

And then there is the closeness of the singers…Look — Nino and April were brother and sister, but if you didn’t know that, you might assume they were… let’s say… sharing a single milkshake with two straws and making prolonged eye contact. Their harmonies have that “we’re either deeply connected or this is mildly inappropriate” energy.

Is that chemistry? Is that creepiness? Is that just the 60s being the 60s?  Honestly, it’s probably all three. The era specialized in “vaguely sensual but also confusing” duos.

And yes, this absolutely counts as fluff — but the good kind. The kind of fluff that feels like a warm towel fresh out of the dryer. The kind of fluff that makes you say, “You know what? Life is hard. Give me something with strings, harmonies, and a slightly over‑dramatic bridge.”

Sometimes you just need a little sonic cotton candy.

The Jags - Woman's World/Dumb Blonde

Powerpop Wednesday. I’m caffeinated. I’m spinning powerpop. I’m boppin’ like a nutzo with scholarly intent. Hump day is basically the musical equivalent of a B‑side: sometimes great, sometimes weird, sometimes you just want to flip the record and get to the weekend already. The Jags are exactly the kind of mid‑week chaos I support. It’s the sonic equivalent of slapping the snooze button, chugging a questionable amount of coffee, and deciding—against all evidence—that today might actually work out.

And The Jags? They didn’t just write hooks. They engineered industrial‑strength pop snares designed to grab you by the collar and drag you onto the dance floor like a cartoon character being yanked offstage by a vaudeville cane.

Woman’s World and Dumb Blonde are exactly the kind of songs that make your brain flip and activates the ancient vinyl‑collector gene buried deep in your DNA. Suddenly you’re pacing the room like a deranged archivist muttering matrix numbers under your breath, clutching a 45 like it’s the Rosetta Stone of jangly pop.

Early ’80s bands like this were everywhere—everywhere—but somehow also invisible. It was a golden era of bands with one perfect single, albums that deserved better distribution, labels that couldn’t market their way out of a paper bag, and record store clerks who acted like gatekeepers to a secret society of hooks and harmonies.

Half of them got lost in the shuffle, buried under New Wave haircuts, MTV neon, and the rise of synths that sounded like malfunctioning microwaves. But The Jags? They were one of those groups who could’ve been huge if the universe had rolled the dice differently.

The Chills Doledrums

Two years ago, the world lost Martin Phillips — a remarkable artist of rare sensitivity and imagination whose music shaped so much of what I love. I’ve written before of my love of the Chills and about how deeply he influenced me, and how that admiration opened the door to so many other New Zealand bands that have become woven into the soundtrack of my life.

I only had one direct interaction with Martin, and I’ve carried a quiet regret about it ever since. In 2001, he released the three CD collection Secret Box: Chills Rarities, which I ordered immediately. When it arrived, the special jewel case was damaged, and I emailed him to complain. He responded with humility and kindness, apologized, and sent a replacement without hesitation. Over the years, I’ve replayed that moment and recognized how misplaced my frustration was — as if he were personally responsible for whatever happened in transit. He handled it with humility and generosity, and I wish I had matched that.

With time, I’ve revisited that exchange and recognized how misplaced my irritation was — directed at someone who had poured so much of himself into his work, someone who had weathered struggles far greater than a damaged jewel box. Knowing now how difficult certain years were for him only deepens my regret. I’ve grown a lot in the twenty five years since then, and I’ve learned from moments like this. I wish I had written back, apologized, and simply told him how profoundly his music has meant to me — how inspiring it was to watch him persevere through challenges and continue creating beauty.  

I doubt he ever connected my name as a supporter of his documentary to that old email. He never struck me as someone who held onto small grievances or keep a ledger of human imperfections or kept score. Still, I carry the wish that I had offered him the gratitude he deserved.

Martin, wherever you are — know that you were cherished by countless people across this wide world, and that your absence is felt. Your music continues to echo, gentle and enduring, in all the places you once illuminated.

 

Dick Vance - Nuthin, Man Nuthin / Sharon Oh Sharon

I picked up this little oddball at the flea market a few weeks ago, and it’s the kind of record that makes you stare at the label like it’s trying to gaslight you. It’s listed as Dick Vance… yet the music is by Dominic and the Dominos. How do you even title this thing? “Dick Vance Presents Dominic & The Dominos Featuring A Mild Identity Crisis”?

Discogs claims Dick Vance was a rock & roll performer, which is interesting, because I’ve only ever seen two singles under his name. But then — plot twist — he was inducted into the Iowa Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2000. Iowa! Rock & Roll Hall of Fame! My eyebrows did a full gymnast routine.

Digging deeper, I find out he wasn’t inducted as a performer at all, but as a disc jockey. Turns out he was a program director and DJ at KSO in Iowa from 1958–1964. Naturally, this raises the important question: was he spinning his own records on the air, or was that frowned upon? Because if I had cut a record back then, I’d be finding ways to sneak it into every set. Then again, maybe not. I stumbled across a web page from his time as a program director with a list of programing rules and they were strict. I’m fairly certain my blog alone would have earned me several trips to his office weekly before eventually being launched headfirst into unemployment and politely escorted out of the building and told never to darken their transmitter again.

But enough about Dick—let’s talk about Nuthin Man Nuthin — Can you imagine this thing getting airtime in Iowa of all places? “Sharon” was supposedly the A-side, which makes sense since it’s the safer, more respectable choice. It’s conservative, polite, the kind of song you could drop at a neighborhood barbecue and the crowd wouldn’t even flinch — it’s one of those perfectly harmless sides you keep in your crate for moments when you don’t want to scare anyone off. The kind of track that slips by unnoticed while you quietly judge everyone for not realizing it’s a minor footnote in the catalog of obscure regional doowop you’ve been evangelizing since 1998.

Nuthin Man Nuthin, however, is… not that. It opens with chatter, some noise, bird sounds, then someone yells “hey man, where’s the women?” like they’re lost at the wrong party, and then a guitar solo kicks in so hot it probably violated several Midwestern broadcasting ordinances. This is not cornfield‑approved content.

Dick Vance passed away in 2000 at the ripe age of 88, leaving behind a legacy of two singles, one Hall of Fame induction, and one extremely confusing 45 that now lives in my collection like a feral cat I’ve decided to adopt.

Capitol City Five - Blessed Are The Poor And Spirit/Something Within

Last night handed me the deepest sleep I’ve had in ages, the kind of slumber that should’ve reset my soul like a factory reboot — and yet I still woke up exhausted. Cooper and I managed a short walk, but I spent the whole time feeling like my eyelids were auditioning for the role of “heavy velvet curtains.” Even the coffee isn’t stepping up; it’s just sitting there looking pretty while I contemplate a power nap like it’s a religious calling.

Today’s lesson came from a flea‑market gamble I made a few weeks back — one of those blind buys where you pray it’s what you think it is, and it’s downright righteous when it actually is. The bonus revelation: the Capitol City Five were a North Carolina gospel group from Raleigh (which, yes, I should’ve pieced together from the name alone). Wilbert Jones on one side, James Thomason the other. Deep southern spiritual sounds drifting through a foggy morning… honestly, it’s the closest thing to caffeine that’s working.

The Troyes- Love Comes, Love Dies/Help Me Find Myself

It has been just a horrible week… My lower back decided to file a formal complaint with HR, where sitting and lying down became an Olympic event in discomfort, which meant sleep was basically a rumor. I was twisted up like a pretzel someone dropped behind the couch — the kind you find years later and think, “How was this ever food?” Then, in a bold act of self‑punishment, I went celibate from coffee and good food all week because I had a colonoscopy Friday. A colonoscopy. Truly the Super Bowl of indignities.

But it is the best 45‑minute sleep money can buy — It’s not just a nap. It’s a micro‑vacation. A budget‑friendly coma. A medical‑sponsored spiritual reset. The kind of nap that feels like you briefly slipped into a parallel universe where you wake up unsure of your name, the year, or why your wife is staring at you like you’ve been elected mayor of the recovery room in your half nakedness from the waist down glory.

So the lead‑up to that short blissful slumber? Oh, it wasn’t just rough — it was Brutal, Biblical rough. We’re talking about caffeine withdrawal headaches so intense they could’ve been listed as one of the lesser‑known plagues. I was one migraine away from grabbing a staff and parting the Red Sea. And now? This morning, after returning to another pain filled night with no sleep night,  I sit here treating this cup of coffee like it’s a sacred potion brewed by forest wizards. I’m sniffing it, swirling it, judging its legs like I’m performing a one‑person show called The Phantom of the Café. I’ve become the sort of person who whispers “caramel notes” into the void. I earned this

So yes, I feel like celebrating my morning coffee revival with sounds that bring joy, and I’m finally getting to this one on the blog — it’s been warming the bullpen bench for a while. I heard snippets on the web prior to purchase and immediately thought, Oh yeah, that’s mine now.

The Troyes. Why was this not a classic? “Love Comes and Love Dies” doesn’t just start — it pounds in like it’s kicking down your front door. They were signed to Ray Anthony’s Space label, which is such an odd pairing it feels like someone pulled record‑label names out of a hat.

And the picture sleeve? Smokin’. Gorgeous. A real collector’s trophy. Do I own it? Of course not. Will I ever? Probably not — unless I stumble across it in some cosmic garage sale where the universe decides to throw me a bone.

But the record itself? Pure joy. Exactly what a man deserves after a week of back pain, sleep depravation, caffeine celibacy, and medical adventures in plumbing.

Percy Sledge - Heart Of A Child/It Tears Me Up

I’m pretty sure this is the first Percy Sledge 45 I’ve actually listened to, which is frankly embarrassing because I’ve been acting like he only recorded When A Man Loves A Woman — the song that’s been played so many times it’s basically a federally mandated emotional PSA and if I am being honest one I never liked.

While When a Man Loves a Woman was his debut thunderbolt — straight to #1 like Percy personally elbowed his way to the front of the charts — It Tears Me Up cruised in at #20 as his fourth‑highest hit. But honestly? The B‑side is the one that sucker‑punches me right in the sternum. It doesn’t just “kick” — it shows up wearing steel‑toed boots and a bad attitude, ready to rearrange my emotional furniture. This one says, “Hey buddy, maybe stop judging me by the one song that’s been used in every wedding slideshow since 1966.”

And now I’m realizing I’ve got a whole colony of Percy Sledge 45s hibernating in boxes somewhere. At some point I clearly need to host a private Percy Sledge listening party, complete with snacks, beverages, and the kind of solemn commitment usually reserved for tax season. I’ll dim the lights, cue up the turntable, and let Percy personally remind me that he was way more than one slow‑dance classic.

Honestly, I’m a little excited. It’s like discovering a secret room in your own house — except the room is full of soul records and questionable musical choices.