Halloween Radio Spots....S s s s s s s" & Young Frankenstein

It's Halloweenie season, peeps, and as is tradition around here, I'm kicking things off by taking a hard left turn into Weirdsville.

I had a few spooky grails on my want list this year, but despite my best efforts, they continue to elude me like a reasonably priced original garage 45 at a flea market. At this point, I've got several years' worth of Halloween posts squirreled away, so if I ever do find those missing monsters, something else is going to get bumped into a future year's lineup. It's becoming less of a Halloween series and more of a haunted scheduling problem.

I picked these up nearly a year ago as part of a larger haul from a guy who occasionally opens up his magical "Wherehouse," a place where records seemingly reproduce in the dark when no one is looking. As luck would have it, I get to go digging there again today. YIPPIEE! Somewhere between the excitement and the caffeine, I've already mentally spent money I haven't handed over yet.

What makes these especially interesting is that they're the first radio spots I've ever found in all my years of collecting. Thousands upon thousands of records have passed through my hands, but radio spots? Practically mythical creatures. Maybe they were hiding behind all the Herb Alpert albums.

Now, these aren't the scariest recordings ever made. Nobody's sleeping with the lights on after hearing them. But they're delightfully oddball, which is often even better.

"SSSSSS... once this picture sinks its fangs into you, you'll never be the same. Touch your skin... it's scaled. Look for your legs... they're gone. Feel your body... it's cold. Listen for the hissing. Don't say it... hiss it."

I mean, come on. How freaking cool is that? It's the kind of gloriously over-the-top copy that makes me miss an era when advertisers apparently thought the best way to sell things was to turn people into reptiles. While not a "horror" movie fan...I do think I want to try to find this one to watch! The movie poster advertisement is AMAZING!

And then there's Mel Brooks. Really, who can resist Mel Brooks? The man could probably record himself reading a lawn fertilizer label and I'd happily sit through it twice.

I've got a few more of these radio spots tucked away, and they're weird enough that they'll probably deserve a future megapost of their own. Because if there's one thing record collecting has taught me, it's that no matter how strange the item in your hand may seem, there's always something even stranger waiting in the next box.

Nova's Nine - Pain/Why Listen

Yesterday I went to the office for the first time in several months. Now, normally that sentence wouldn't qualify as exciting news, but this trip came with a side quest.

About six months ago I stumbled across a little junk shop on a secondary highway and asked the owner if he had any records. His answer was, "They're in storage and I'll try to get to them." Every time I'd stop by after that, I'd get the same answer, usually followed by, "Don't worry, I'll set them aside for you and won't let anyone look before you."

At that point I figured this was one of those promises that would join the ranks of New Year's resolutions, political campaign vows, and my washing machine repair timeline.

So, on my way home at lunchtime, I stopped again and asked if he'd found those records.

"Come with me," he said.

Those are dangerous words for a record collector.

We walked into the shop and he told his daughter, "The guy for the vinyls is here." Apparently I have now achieved a level of local fame where I am known simply as The Guy for the Vinyls.

He pulls back a tablecloth and underneath are milk crates of LPs, plastic totes full of 45s, and a footlocker packed with albums. His daughter says, "We were afraid you weren't coming back." Turns out they had been holding these aside for me for over a month.

The pressure was suddenly on.

I move a few lp's on top of the 1st 45 tote (Andy Williams and Firestone Christmas lp- not promising) and grabbed a handful of 45s from the first tote and the first two 45s I pulled were a Hank Williams MGM EP with the cover and a Johnny Cash Sun EP with its cover, both in surprisingly nice condition.

Before getting too excited, I asked the all-important question:

"How much are you asking?"

Anyone who's dug records long enough knows this is the moment where dreams either soar or get run over by reality.

"You can have them all for $50."

I probably handed over that money faster than a contestant hitting the buzzer on Jeopardy.

At that point I hadn't even looked through any of the boxes. For all I knew the foot locker was fifty pounds of Andy Williams and Firestone Christmas LPs with a few records sprinkled in for decoration. But I like the owner, he buys estates and auction lots regularly, and I wanted him to remember me as a good customer instead of the guy who haggled over fifty bucks.

I didn't have time to dig through everything until after work. One box of 45s turned out to be entirely promos. The Good. Unfortunately, many looked like they'd spent several years in a barn conducting weather research. The Bad. But they were old country, easy listening- The Ugly and that was good news. But in the other totes were some interesting Northern Soul, and a bizarre mix of 1980s rock picture sleeves alongside more Johnny Cash Sun EPs.

The LPs were a mixture of soul and country, easy listening, with many of the lp's in rough shape, but the footlocker held some pleasant surprises: late-'60s and early-'70s white-label promo albums by artists I've never heard of and, best of all, in pretty respectable condition. Those are the records I'm most excited to hear.

Will many of the trashed records be headed to the great recycling bin in the sky? Absolutely.

Did I find enough good stuff to make the deal worthwhile and share some records with friends? Without question- one box had 80s country 45s in wonderful condition and I have a friend who will groove on that.

Meanwhile, on the home front, my washing machine remains very committed to its retirement. The repair company appears to have devoted the same level of urgency to fixing it that sloths devote to NASCAR.

They've allegedly been waiting on a part for over a month. After repeated attempts to get answers that produced roughly the same results as shouting into a well. At one point I was about ready to channel Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction and start reciting the "great vengeance and furious anger" speech, although probably with a few modifications involving appliance repair and customer service. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and I contacted Electrolux directly.

Electrolux asked which part was needed. I told them that getting information from the repair company required skills usually reserved for hostage negotiators and archaeological expeditions. The shop had already informed me they couldn't get the part through Electrolux.

Funny thing about that.

Electrolux contacted them, found out the needed part, and promptly informed me they're shipping it directly to me next week.

So at the moment Electrolux has solved more problems in 24 hours than the repair company has solved in a 3 months. And let's be clear, this isn't exactly an endorsement for Electrolux. When a nine-month-old washer breaks down, we're already well past the point where anyone should be taking a victory lap. Credit where it's due: they stepped in, contacted the repair company, figured out the mystery part that apparently required the investigative skills of Sherlock Holmes to identify, and are sending it directly to me. That's more progress than I'd seen in weeks. Still, I'd much rather be praising a washer for washing clothes than praising a manufacturer for helping me navigate a repair process on an appliance that just celebrated its first birthday and only worked 3/4 of the year.

In the meantime, enjoy this one-off single from a North Carolina band. Some folks call it garage soul. I hear more soul than garage, but either way, nobody has to wait a month for a replacement part to enjoy it.

Jose de la Vega - Ode to A Hijacker / Coffee, Tea or Cuba

A little Latin obscurity that followed me home from the flea market this past summer. The sleeve looks like it lost a bar fight, got run over by a shopping cart, and then spent a decade in someone's attic, but there were two copies of the 45 sitting there, daring me to take a chance. Thankfully, years of record collecting have taught me that sometimes the roughest-looking sleeves hide the best surprises. I rolled the dice and I'm glad I did.

And then came the part that really made me do a double take. One of the co-writers is none other than Dickie Goodman, the undisputed king of the break-in record. Now, when I think of Dickie Goodman, I think of hearing Mr. Jaws on the radio as a kid and all those wonderfully goofy records he cranked out over the years. I've picked up more than a few Goodman 45s in my collecting adventures, but finding his name attached to a Latin record? That was definitely not on my bingo card.

Which naturally raises an even bigger question: Who was Jose?

This appears to be a one-off release, with almost no trail to follow. No obvious history, no stack of follow-up records, no easy answers. Just a mysterious Latin 45, a battered sleeve, Dickie Goodman lurking in the songwriting credits, and a guy named Jose who seems to have vanished into the mist of record-collector mythology. 

Of course, that's part of the fun. If every record came with a complete biography, detailed liner notes, and a Netflix documentary, there'd be a lot less excitement in digging through flea market boxes on a hot summer morning. Sometimes the best records are the ones that leave you with more questions than answers.

For now, Jose remains a mystery. But somewhere out there, I'm convinced at least three people know exactly who he was, and two of them probably can't find their reading glasses.

Over the last few years I've developed a real appreciation for Latin sounds and Boogaloo records, which has also encouraged me to gamble a little more on the oddball, overlooked, and downright mysterious singles. After all, if every purchase made perfect sense, what fun would crate digging be?

And speaking of mysteries, are you ready for Halloween? I've got some wonderfully obscure seasonal oddities lined up that may have been heard by fewer people than have actually read the record labels they were pressed on.

After that, I'll have to dig through the shelves to see what I can uncover for Veterans Day and Thanksgiving. And as for Election Day... let's just say I have a surprise planned. No matter which way the votes go, I can guarantee the song will be far more obscure than any candidate.

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.