L. H. And The Memphis Sounds - Double Up /House Full Of Rooms

I have questions. Lots of questions.

Was L. H. And The Memphis Sounds actually from Memphis, or did they simply borrow the Memphis name because it carried a little extra weight on the Southern soul circuit? Did they pack up a station wagon, point it west, and somehow end up in Hollywood long enough to cut a couple of records for a California label? And when those records didn't launch them into the big time, did they quietly head back home with their tails between their legs?

Or am I being completely unfair here?

Truthfully, I have no idea what I'm talking about. And maybe it doesn't even matter.

What I do know is that "Double Up" and "House Full of Rooms" are two absolutely killer sides.

"Double Up" sounds like someone walked into the studio and announced, "Let's use everything." You've got organ, bluesy guitar, punchy brass, soulful vocals, and just enough saxophone to remind you that nobody was interested in subtlety that day. It shouldn't work as well as it does, but somehow they threw the entire kitchen sink into the pot and let it simmer in pure passion.

Then there's "House Full of Rooms." The slower B-side. The one that sneaks up on you. Soulful, bluesy, and so deep in the groove that before long you're no longer listening to the record, you're living inside it. It doesn't demand attention. It earns it.

That's the beauty of collecting old 45s. Half the time I'm chasing stories that may never be fully answered. The artists disappear, labels come and go, and the trail often goes cold long before Google was invented. But every now and then a forgotten little slab of vinyl reminds me that history isn't always about who made it big. Sometimes it's about two songs that still sound fantastic sixty years later.

The world feels a little brighter every time I drop the needle on a record like this. And honestly, that's reason enough for me to keep digging.

Update Time

Last week I posted The Church Columbus and I thought I had a promo copy of The Church's "Columbus" on 45. As it turns out, my memory was apparently operating on the same level as a worn-out styrene pressing. After a little investigation, I discovered I did not own the promo after all.

Then, as fate, temptation, and collector OCD would have it, I stumbled across a cheap copy online last week. At that point there was really only one possible outcome. Resistance was futile. The order was placed.

The 45 arrived yesterday in beautiful condition and now sits proudly in the collection, proving once again that record collecting is less a hobby and more a series of financially questionable decisions justified by tiny label variations.

I have updated the Columbus post to include the promo copy- say: Thank You.

The 45's -Couldn't Believe A Word

This one has several things going for it right out of the gate. First off, the name. The 45's. As someone whose life has been happily derailed by little seven-inch pieces of vinyl and has devoted an unreasonable amount of shelf space, spare cash, and brain cells to 45s, I feel obligated to support any band that understands my particular vinyl-based affliction.

Then there's the fact that it's on Stiff Records, a label that never seemed interested in following the rules when they could write better ones. They zigged when everyone else zagged. Stiff built a reputation on releasing records that were smart, quirky, and gloriously uninterested in fitting neatly into anyone else's box. This single carries that same spirit.

And then there's the song itself, a catchy little gem that sounds like it was assembled by people who loved hooks and melody. It's got that power-pop punch I can never resist, but what really grabs me is the organ. On paper it feels like a questionable engineering decision. In practice, it works so well that after about thirty seconds your brain simply accepts it and starts filing paperwork declaring it essential.  

Most importantly, this one has earned the highest honor available in this household: Super Cooper the Wonder Dog's Seal of Approval. Granted, his review process mainly involves ear positioning, tail movement, and whether he decides to leave the room, but standards are standards. On this occasion, the verdict was overwhelmingly positive. And really, who am I to argue with such a distinguished canine critic?

If Stiff Records was built on the idea that great music should be clever, fun, and a little eccentric, this 45 proudly carries the company banner

Remember When - Lone Ranger

Here is an oddball 45 and, if I'm being honest, not usually my cup of coffee. I picked it up as part of that massive haul about four years ago and only recently got around to giving it a proper spin. The A-side did absolutely nothing for me, which is exactly why every record collector should follow the sacred commandment: always flip the platter over. Sometimes the treasure is hiding on the side nobody bothered to mention.

Thankfully, that was the case here. The flip side delivers some surprisingly appealing doo-wop flavored sounds, which is not what I expected from a 1988 release. It's like finding a vintage diner jukebox hiding inside a Reagan-era time capsule.

As for the title, I was never much of a Lone Ranger fan. I knew who he was, of course. Much like Lawrence Welk, the Lone Ranger seemed to exist primarily so older generations could ask, "You know who this is, right?" while looking disappointed when you didn't.

What I do remember is the bizarre episode where Clayton Moore, the original Lone Ranger, was sued for appearing in public wearing the Lone Ranger mask. Imagine spending decades becoming synonymous with a character only to be told, "Sorry, you're no longer allowed to be the guy you've been playing your whole life." The lawsuit stemmed from a new Lone Ranger film that was on the horizon. The studio apparently felt there was room for only one masked man on horseback.

The irony, of course, is that the movie ended up riding straight into obscurity while Clayton eventually got the right to wear the mask again. Sometimes the good guys really do win in the end. Meanwhile, this forgotten little 45 has probably provided more entertainment in my house than that movie ever did.

So saddle up, flip the record over, and enjoy a lesson that applies equally to vinyl and life: sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the other side.

The Raiders - Stick Shift/Skipping Around

Back to some surf instrumental sounds for this cold, brisk morning. After two days of weather-related and sleep-deprivation-induced inactivity on my part, Super Cooper the Wonderdog finally got his much-anticipated morning walk. To be fair, neither of us exactly bounded out the door like extras in a dog food commercial, but once I bundled up and accepted my fate, off we went. We didn't skip down the street, but we managed a respectable pace and both returned with our dignity mostly intact.

Today's selection comes courtesy of my friend Jessie. I was all set to buy this one from him, but instead he slipped it into my package for free. That's the kind of generosity that keeps record collectors convinced humanity still has a fighting chance. I'd never come across a Canadian Vee-Jay pressing before, so naturally I had to pair it with a U.S. Vee-Jay sleeve I rescued from a box of orphaned sleeves. Some records find their forever homes. Some sleeves do too.

These Raiders came out of Texas and, if you check cogs of dis, you'll see a "(9)" attached to the band's name. That's what happens when several groups decide that "Raiders" is the perfect band name and nobody bothers to consult future record collectors. Of course, that didn't seem to concern Mark Lindsay's outfit when they shortened their name to simply The Raiders. Once you've had a string of hits, trademark anxiety tends to become someone else's problem. Raiders (9) were active in their local scene and apparently kept busy entertaining Texas audiences, but they never managed to break through on a national level. Fortunately for us crate-diggers, obscurity often makes for the most interesting discoveries. After all, if every record in our collections were hits, digging wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

I've also been busy recording a few other things for the coming week, and the Halloween stash is officially ready to go. In fact, I may have gotten a little carried away. By my calculations, assuming no further acquisitions, no sudden bursts of Halloween enthusiasm, and absolutely no realistic record collector behavior, I probably have enough spooky tunes lined up for the next two years. Of course, we all know that's exactly the sort of prediction that guarantees I'll find another stack of Halloween records by next weekend.

Yvonne Jackson/ John, Ron and Bill - What Could Be Nicer/Another Step Toward Heaven

What a great way to start the day: a 45 that seems to have vanished from recorded history. I've found absolutely no reference to it anywhere, though I'm guessing it may be a Virginia release since Danville appears on the label. Then again, I've been wrong before, usually with great confidence.

Truth be told, I'm cheating a bit with this post. I'm still awake watching the Colorado game, and since Saturday morning's post arrived fashionably late, I figured I'd give Sunday a head start before common sense suggested sleep.

The A-side, What Could Be Nicer featuring Yvonne Jackson, eases you in gently. It's the musical equivalent of a Sunday morning sunrise, calm and reassuring. Then you flip it over to Another Step Toward Heaven and suddenly all restraint leaves the building.

This thing is FIRE.

Apparently the song was so powerful it couldn't be contained by one vocalist. It took three of them, John, Ron, and Bill, to deliver the message. The result is pure electricity. Not the kind currently running up my utility bill, but the sort that leaps out of the speakers like a holy bolt of spiritual lightning. The rhythm crackles, the vocals soar, and before long you're not taking another step toward heaven, you're practically being launched there.

Obscure records are one of life's great blessings. Sometimes you spend years hunting for the rare and celebrated only to have an unknown little 45 appear out of nowhere and remind you that joy, much like grace, often shows up where you least expect it.

So while I should probably be sleeping, instead I'm sitting here marveling at another forgotten gem rescued from obscurity. Maybe that's part of the fun of collecting records: every once in a while you are rewarded for your persistence with a revelation spinning at 45 RPM.

Amen to that.

Game Theory - Nine Lives to Rigel Five/The Red Baron

Good plans have a funny way of going completely off the rails. At 1 a.m., the wind and rain decided to tag-team my cable and internet, knocking both out until about 2:45pm. As a result, Cooper and I missed our walk, which I'm pretty sure he views as a personal betrayal on my part.

Since I suddenly found myself disconnected from the modern world, I headed to the laundromat to wash clothes. Why? Because the washing machine is still waiting on parts from the repair company. Three months. Three Months. At this point I'm convinced the replacement parts are being hand-forged by medieval blacksmiths somewhere in the mountains of Eastern Europe.

What really boggles the mind is that we live in an era where Amazon can parachute a package onto your front porch before you've finished ordering it, yet somehow a washing machine part requires the sort of logistical planning normally associated with a moon landing. Anyway, with laundry drying and my patience on permanent backorder, I decided to salvage the day by driving an hour to the thrift store. As any record collector knows, questionable decisions often lead to excellent discoveries. A little while later I emerged with a mess of 45s, a few albums, lighter in the wallet, heavier in the collection, and still somehow closer to finding obscure 45s than the repair company is to finding a washing machine part.

More deep cuts, this time from Game Theory, which in my mind occupied that rarefied level of college radio known as the underground underground. The band that made even the cool kids seem commercial. The bigger mystery, though, is how I managed to go this long without uploading them to the blog. My organizational system apparently rivals my filing system, which is to say it occasionally resembles a controlled archaeological dig.

During my junior year at Colorado State University, I had a roommate who tolerated my increasingly obsessive musical pursuits. One day we were watching a local music video show and they played Game Theory. That was all it took. I immediately lost my mind and, as was often the case in those years, concluded it was now my destiny to acquire everything Scott Miller had ever touched. Rational financial decisions were quietly escorted from the building.

That collecting impulse continued years later when Omnivore reissued some of the catalog on 10-inch vinyl during a Record Store Day. Naturally, I paid far more than necessary because I was convinced the entire world would soon discover Game Theory and these records would become impossible to find. As it turns out, the entire world failed to consult me before making its purchasing decisions, and now copies can be found for considerably less. Such is the burden of being decades ahead of an imaginary market.

Recently I came across this radio station copy (cheap, I might add very cheap). The cover looks like it survived a minor natural disaster, but it came with the original press release, which immediately overrode all common sense. Normal people saw a beat-up cover. I saw bonus paper ephemera and heard angels singing. Silly geeky me.

And honestly, I miss Scott Miller. Few songwriters could pack so much intelligence, emotion, wit, and humanity into three-minute pop songs. "Nine Lives to Rigel Five" still dazzles with its brainy charm, while "The Red Baron" captures that bittersweet internal tug-of-war that comes with relationships and all the hopes, fears, and self-inflicted complications we bring to them. Decades later, the songs still land. Scott Miller burned bright, left us far too soon, and remains one of those shooting-star songwriters whose brilliance continues to illuminate the corners of the musical universe for those willing to go digging. More Game Theory to follow

Teenage Fanclub - Free Again/Bad Seed

First off, I want to thank everyone who's stopped by and viewed these posts over the past few weeks. The numbers have been noticeably higher than usual, which either means the algorithm briefly took pity on me or there are actually more people out there interested in obscure records than I thought. Both possibilities seem unlikely, yet here we are.

If you're new to the blog, send me a message and let me know what you'd like to hear. I've done viewer requests in the past, although the last few times I opened the floor to suggestions the response was a deafening silence. Zero. Nada. Not even a wildly unrealistic request for a private pressing recorded in a Nebraska grain silo in 1964.

So come on, try to stump the chum. Let's see if I have it hiding somewhere in the collection, or at least something in the same musical neighborhood. After all, record collectors secretly enjoy being challenged almost as much as we enjoy boring innocent civilians with matrix numbers and label variations.

I've got some fun Halloween posts lined up and enough recordings in the can to cover next year, and probably part of the year after that. Naturally, yesterday I remembered another idea I've been meaning to do for ages, which means a perfectly innocent post has now been bumped into the future. My editorial process remains every bit as organized as a box of unsorted garage-sale 45s.

I'm even starting to think about Christmas posts. If the retail world can start celebrating Christmas somewhere around Labor Day, I figure I'm practically behind schedule.

Today's selection presents what feels like a perfect musical marriage: Teenage Fanclub covering songs by Alex Chilton and Beat Happening. Teenage Fanclub occasionally backed Alex Chilton live, and there's a fantastic two-song performance floating around out there that absolutely smokes. Unfortunately, I've never been able to find those tracks on any official release, which is precisely the kind of thing that keeps record collectors awake at night wondering if one more pressing variation might finally contain the answer. Of course, this marriage is also not surprising given that Bandwagonesque channels Big Star like a medium conducting a late-night séance with the ghosts of Ardent Studios. If anyone was destined to tackle Chilton's catalog, it was Teenage Fanclub.

I do own a reissue featuring Alex's version of Free Again, but this Teenage Fanclub take, released on the legendary indie label K Records, is as close to perfect as you could hope for. And if you're recording for K, it seems almost mandatory to pay tribute to the label's founders by tackling a Beat Happening song. Their version of Bad Seed does exactly that.

Which reminds me, it's probably time for more Beat Happening around here. There can never be too much Calvin Johnson in the mix, and if there is, I haven't reached that point yet.