Sister Rosetta Tharpe - Things That I Used To Do/It's Me/I Have Good news To Bring/Didn't It Rain/Bring Back Those Happy Days

It was a very exhausting week. I flew to Colorado, which meant very little sleep, and of course my return flight was delayed because apparently the travel gods felt I hadn't suffered enough. I didn't get into RDU until 1:30 a.m. and wasn't home until 3:30am. Three-and-a-half hours of sleep later, I was back up tackling other tasks. The body is simply not as resilient as it used to be. When I was younger, I could bounce back from this kind of abuse. Now I need a recovery plan for a good night's sleep.

The trip wasn't all bad, though. I found some pretty cool records and managed to do a healthy amount of crate digging. Another bonus was coming home to records waiting in the mailbox, including today's arrival. I managed to score this Sister Rosetta Tharpe record and, oh my, is it ever choice. I've pulled a few highlights to share.

I love Rosetta and never pass one of her records by when I'm digging through crates. The problem is, I almost never find them. She possessed incredible power, a truly unique voice, and an influence on the development of R&B and Rock and Roll that cannot be overstated. For once, the Rock and Roll Hall of F(Sh)ame actually got one right when they inducted her.

So enjoy a little Sister Rosetta today. Take a moment to reflect on how much modern music owes to her pioneering work. Without Rosetta Tharpe, Rock and Roll might have developed very differently, and some of the music we love today might never have existed at all.

Shados- M You Owe Me Nothing/She Loves Me

You know it's going to be good when the group is called Shados-M. Not Shadows. Not The Shadows. Shados-M. That alone tells you somebody was operating under a completely different set of rules.

This is another one of those 45s where I recorded the B-side first because, well, you know me. If there's a moody garage tune lurking in the shadows, that's where I'm heading. The cogs of Dis has a picture of the promo copy of this record, and the label actually marks the A-side, "She Loves Me," as the "suggested side."

To which I respectfully reply: bugger off.

Sure, it's good. But the B-side is where the magic happens. It starts with that swirling organ, slowly pulling you in, then the guitar kicks in just before the singer pleads, "Girl, you've been so good to me..." Then comes the killer line: "Asked what you can do for me..." followed by the response that seals the deal: "You owe me nothing."

At that moment, I'm hooked.

The singer spends the rest of the song lamenting his fate, and you genuinely feel bad for the poor guy. At the same time, the organ keeps churning, the fuzz guitar keeps building, and I'm sitting there grinning like an idiot because the music is so ridiculously good. The man's heart is being dragged behind a moving vehicle, and I'm over here thinking, "Wow, listen to that fuzz tone."

So while he's suffering a full-blown emotional collapse, I'm having the time of my life.

I hope you don't judge me and make an assumption that this admission says something troubling about my character.

On the other hand, I am sharing this glorious slab of garage misery with all of you fine people, so perhaps I possess at least a shred of decency. Not much of a shred, mind you, but enough to keep me from being a complete monster.

Bunny Sigler - Follow Your Heart /Can You Dig It

Friday soul finds us with a fantastic double-sided 45, tucked inside one of those glorious Cameo sleeves. For a record geek like me, those sleeves are pure eye candy, and when you pair one with a white label promo, it's basically vinyl cheesecake.

I run across Bunny Sigler records surprisingly often, which is odd when you consider he was never a massive crossover star. His biggest Billboard pop hit only reached #28, although he did crack the R&B Top 10 with a #8 hit. Most of his 45s, however, seemed to simply exist, quietly occupying record bins while the world chased the next big thing.

This one is the real mystery. I have a hard time understanding how it didn't even dent the R&B charts. It's got all the ingredients: a great groove, a strong vocal, hooks in the right places, and enough soul to fill a church basement on a Saturday night. Yet somehow it went absolutely nowhere. The music business has always been part talent, part timing, and part throwing darts while blindfolded.

Still, Bunny had what many musicians would gladly take over a brief moment of superstardom: a long, productive career. He kept working, creating, and contributing long after the spotlight moved on. Honestly, that's probably what I aspire to myself. Give me a productive work life, a few things I'm proud of, and enough good records to keep me occupied.

Of course, if the lottery wants to step in and dramatically accelerate that retirement plan, I can assure you my feelings would remain completely unhurt. In fact, I'd be willing to make that sacrifice for the greater good.

Lorraine Ellison - I Dig You Baby/Don't Let It Go To Your Head

Sweet girl-group sounds from Lorraine Ellison, riding those slick Lou Courtney production grooves. Somewhere on my shelf there's probably a red-label Mercury copy too. And yes, I can hear the chorus already: "Of course he has one." Did I bother to look for it before posting this? No. No, I did not.

This one bubbled under the Billboard Hot 100 at #103 the year I was born, which feels like one of those strange little cosmic footnotes record collectors live for. Lorraine's career was already fading into history as mine was just beginning. Even stranger, she passed away the year I graduated high school. The record sat quietly between those two milestones, waiting for me to find it decades later.

That's one of the things I love about old 45s. They're tiny time machines. A song misses the charts, disappears into cutout bins and forgotten jukeboxes, and fifty years later some guy is standing in a thrift store holding it up like he's discovered buried treasure.

The Boomtown Rats - She's So Modern/Lying Again

I was never a huge Boomtown Rats fan back in the day, but I've noticed that as my hair gets grayer, my appreciation for them gets a little stronger. Funny how that works. Those early Rats records are packed with hooks, the kind that sneak into your brain and refuse to leave.

About five years ago, I was crate digging at a guy's warehouse. Records aren't even his main business. He sells them on the side and occasionally throws open the warehouse doors for brave souls willing to dig. The place is absurd. Mountains of records. Boxes stacked on shelves, piled on floors, tucked into corners that probably haven't seen daylight since the Reagan administration.

Near his desk sat a bunch of album boxes marked "$3 Each." I usually ignore them because they're a complete free-for-all. No organization, no logic, no mercy. For reasons I still can't explain, I started flipping through them. Suddenly I was staring at a run of modern alternative-rock promo LPs in beautiful condition. Then I spotted A Tonic for the Troops by the Boomtown Rats. At that point, the casual flipping stopped and the emergency extraction operation began. Those records were tucked under my arm so fast they probably experienced time dilation.

I've got a handful of Boomtown Rats 45s that will eventually make their way onto this blog. But that's a story for another day.

For now, it's time for more coffee.

 

The Danes - To Make Me A Man/Lost Love

It may have a little crackle left even after a deep cleaning, but honestly, I knew that before I ever dropped it in the bath. Still, it’s a Tower promo 45, and when a Tower promo shows up, self-control quietly leaves the room and I have to take the gamble.

The Danes didn’t turn out to be the raging soul stomper or fuzzed-out garage burner I was secretly hoping for, but there’s a vibe here that makes it an essential keeper. The A-side, To Make Me a Man, rides a breezy mid-60s folk-pop feel, while the B-side, Lost Love, drifts into a surprisingly doo-wopish flavored heartbreak vibe. Not the wild Tower monster I was hunting, but sometimes the records you keep aren’t the ones that knock you over, they’re the ones that sneak into the room and refuse to leave.

The Animals - The Night

Clean-Up Monday. Yep, this week will probably be a haphazard collection of songs I've recorded recently. As amusing as it is (at least to me), I seem to have mastered a very inefficient system: sometimes I record a song and forget to photograph the 45, and other times I take the photo but never get around to recording the song. You'd think I would learn eventually, but apparently not. When I'm busy trying to multitask, I usually end up proving once again that multitasking is often just an efficient way to do several things incompletely at the same time.

When I discovered rock and roll at about nine or ten years old, there was no turning back. I spent countless hours with a little transistor radio pressed against my ear, listening to an oldies station late into the evening. Every song seemed to open a door to another world. I loved hearing the British Invasion bands, garage rock, and all those records that sounded exciting, rebellious, and larger than life to a kid growing up in the 1970s. When Eric Burdon and the Animals came on, I paid attention. There was something about Burdon's voice that sounded tougher and more authentic than most of what I was hearing elsewhere on the dial.

Once rock music got its hooks into me, it never let go. While other kids were probably paying closer attention to more practical pursuits, I was already becoming a record geek without realizing it. Those hours spent listening to the radio eventually led to buying records, collecting records, and many years later spending way too much time hunting for obscure 45s. Looking back, that little transistor radio may have been one of the most important purchases my family ever made.

Fast-forward to 1983, the year I graduated from high school, and I remember seeing the video for "The Night" and hearing it on the radio. The song reached #48 on the Billboard charts and became the Animals' final hit. Listening to it today, I can hear just how slick and polished the production is. Compared to their raw, bluesy roots, it feels like a band making a deliberate play for a modern rock audience. 

Whether that was the right move is open to debate, but it's an interesting snapshot of a legendary group adapting to a very different musical landscape. Even if it lacks some of the grit that made me fall in love with the Animals in the first place, it's still a record I enjoy revisiting. Maybe that's because every time I hear it, I'm reminded of that kid sitting beside a transistor radio, discovering rock and roll one song at a time

The Templearies- He Spoke/What Will Heaven Have In Store For Me

Yep, back to familiar Sunday territory thanks to the Peacock label and this wonderful one-off 45. It sounds like the Templeaires strutted into the studio carrying fire, cut a record possessed by conviction, and then walked out wrapped in the Holy Spirit, the gospel equivalent of a garage-band 45. A group appears from nowhere, cuts a transcendent record, and then vanishes so completely it's as if the session itself was the entire mission never to be heard from again.

That mystery is one of the things that keeps drawing me back to gospel 45s. Why did some groups manage to survive for decades while others left behind a single glorious flash before disappearing into the fog of history? Some built careers, some built legacies, and some only left a witness.

Maybe that's part of the lesson. In gospel music, success isn't always measured by longevity. Sometimes a group is called to sing one song, press one record, touch a few hearts, and move on. Decades later, collectors like us stumble across that testimony in a dusty crate and wonder what became of them.

The Templeaires may have vanished from the scene, but the spirit they captured in those grooves is still very much alive. Not a bad epitaph for a one-off 45.

Neil Griffin & The Music Men - Brown Bag/What Can I Do

I picked this one up earlier this summer. The label probably doesn't mean much to most people, but when I see a 45 like this, it jumps out at me like a glow-in-the-dark voodoo doll in a dark alley.

First, there's the sheer plainness of the label. That's usually my cue to go into full detective mode and do two things: check where it was recorded and check the label number.

In this case, Step 2 immediately set off my Regional Record Geek Alarm. It was recorded at Arthur Smith Studios in Charlotte, North Carolina. And if you've followed my collecting habits for more than five minutes, you know I always grab records recorded there.

Then there's the label number: 6-6491. That led me down the rabbit hole of believing it was pressed by Kay Bank in Minneapolis most likely after they expanded and opened a pressing plant in Charlotte. Of course, Kay Bank numbering can be about as predictable of where it was pressed as a squirrel on espresso, so there's always room for debate.

Now, not everything recorded at Arthur Smith wound up on a North Carolina label. For example, the Swingin' Medallions' "Double Shot" was recorded there but first appeared on a South Carolina label. So I'll admit I'm being a little North Carolina-centric here.

And let's be honest, looking at these regional releases can sometimes make us forget just how many heavy hitters passed through Arthur Smith's doors. James Brown recorded "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" there, for starters. The catch is that many of those major releases never bothered to advertise the recording location on the label.

As for this 45 on ABC, I think we can all agree this isn't that ABC Paramount. According to the cogs of Dis detectives, it was a regional North Carolina label.

So there you have it, boys and girls: me enthusiastically overanalyzing a random 45 on a Saturday morning. And this was all after just one cup of coffee.

Imagine the conclusions I would've reached after two. I might've started drawing charts and connecting label numbers with red yarn. 😆

Herbert Hunter - I Was Born To Love You/Push Away From The Table

Monster Soul 45 alert, courtesy of Noize in your head— the kind of Friday‑table heater that makes you forget whatever responsible adult thing you were supposed to be doing today. This one has that energy: the “oh no, I’m about to rearrange my entire wantlist” kind of energy.

So I’m lipping through the stack at the thrift store, doing my usual Herbert Hunter ritual when I see his 45’s, which is basically me grabbing every 45 with his name on it like a Gollum hoarding his preciousssss, because the man buried in his many 45rpm releases a few serious wallet‑melters in his discography. And, true to form, my swiss‑cheese brain never remembers which ones are the wallet -melters. I just operate on blind faith and collector superstition.

But now? Oh, now I know one.

Because this one isn’t just pricey — it’s a biggie, the kind of biggie that makes you sit up straighter, adjust your imaginary monocle, and whisper “well hello there” to a piece of vinyl like you’re in a noir film. The kind of biggie that makes you do that slow, satisfied nod like you just pulled Excalibur out of a milk crate. And the best part? It earns every penny of its reputation. This thing is smoking — so hot it should come with a warning label and a tiny fire extinguisher tucked inside the sleeve.

It’s the perfect collector moment:
You didn’t remember the title.
You didn’t remember the value.
But your hands knew.
Your instincts knew.

And now your Friday knows who’s really running the show.

The Young Rascals - Lonely Too Long / If You Knew

Yesterday I hit that special level of cynicism where even my coffee looked scared of me. Then it dawned on me: dude… it’s your staycation. You’re supposed to be relaxed, not auditioning for the role of Bitter Man #3. So I did what any self‑respecting record hoarder does when the emotional barometer swings into the red — I reached for some gut‑punch soul‑soothing magic. And who better than The Rascals? Or technically “The Young Rascals,” because apparently even their name had a rebellious phase.

Then I realized these saints of blue‑eyed soul haven’t appeared on this blog in 13 years. Thirteen. Freaking. Years. That’s practically a geological epoch in blog time. No brainer: they’re back.

I’m pretty sure I own every 45 they ever pressed — stock, promo, plus the weird variants that only five people on Earth care about. And when I eventually start collecting pressing‑plant variations, that’s when you’ll know I’ve gone fully over the edge and should be gently escorted to a facility with soft lighting and no sharp corners. Honestly, I shouldn’t even joke about it because… I’m close. Very close. That’s when I’ll officially cross the Rubicon into “needs supervised care.” Until then I will continue to delude myself. It’s fine. Everything’s fine

The The - The Beat(en) Generation

It sure feels like Matt Johnson was either a prophet in 1989 or simply had the good sense to notice how politics works. The lyrics from The Beat(en) Generation are almost disturbingly appropriate: — “By the greedy hands of politics and half‑truths… reared on a diet of prejudice and misinformation” — hit harder now than they did when The The first sang them. You can watch almost any political ad today and see the same formula: a little truth, a little fiction, and a whole lot of confident hand‑waving.

We’re told inflation is down, gas prices are great (except the news report I have heard 5 times this morning already about "surging" gas prices), food costs are lower, tariffs are overflowing with revenue, and the rising cost of living and inflation is just “fake news.” And every time I hear those claims, I find myself wondering Where are these people shopping? Because I’d love to visit. Apparently, there’s a magical supermarket somewhere where groceries cost less, gasoline is practically free, and tariffs are paying everyone’s bills. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the checkout line wondering if my carton of eggs has been upgraded to 24-karat gold, and unfortunately, my grocery receipt doesn’t accept “misinformation” as a payment method.

The frustrating part is that somewhere beneath all the political theater, campaign slogans, carefully polished talking points, and competing versions of reality are actual people trying to pay their bills, buy groceries, fill their cars, and make it through the month.

Maybe instead of endlessly playing the party line, politicians could try something wonderfully radical: working for the people who elected them rather than for themselves, their parties, or the next election cycle. It would be nice if we were not stuck in this endless loop of spin, counter‑spin, and “don’t worry, everything’s fine.” That includes the recent promise of that supposed $5,000 payment to every adult if a certain party wins. I’m a little confused by that one, too. If we have an extra $5,000 lying around for every adult, why does winning an election have to be the prerequisite for giving it away? Is there a giant vault somewhere marked “Money We Were Going to Give You Anyway, But Only If You Vote Correctly”? And frankly, I hope it doesn’t happen. We’re already buried under a national debt that would make a sane person hide under the bed. Giving everyone money we don't actually have sounds less like prosperity and more like putting another credit card in the shredder and congratulating ourselves on being financially responsible.

Of course, they’ll find a way to get it back from us eventually.

Taxes. Fees. Inflation. Tariffs. Some beautifully named “temporary” surcharge that becomes permanent approximately three minutes after we stop paying attention.

Maybe I’m being overly cynical this morning. Then again, perhaps cynicism is what happens when you’ve heard enough promises to know that the fine print is usually hiding somewhere just outside the camera frame. Maybe I’m tired of being told that what I can plainly see with my own eyes isn't actually happening.

I don’t expect politicians to agree with me—or even with each other. But I do wish they would spend a little less time playing the party line and a little more time remembering who actually pays the bill.

Maybe that’s what Johnson was getting at all those years ago.

Or maybe I just need another cup of coffee.

Cynical? Perhaps.
Paying attention? Absolutely.

The Love Notes -- Our Songs of Love/Nancy

I continue my so‑called staycation today — which, let’s be honest, is really just me doing chores in different emotional states — with an early‑60s doo‑wop throwback spinning in the background like I’m trying to summon a simpler era when appliances actually worked and repairmen had functioning brain cells.

I’ve already been to the laundromat this morning, because yes, the repairman came yesterday to install the new part for the washing machine and yes, correct again, it did absolutely nothing. Not a flicker. Not a whimper. Just the same useless, mocking hunk of metal sitting there like, “Oh, you thought I was going to cooperate? That’s amusing.”

I’m trying to stay positive and not unleash an un-biblical storm of profanity, but the man should’ve ordered all the parts he suspected two weeks ago when he first came out. Instead, he decided to play “Guess That Component,” which is a fun game when you’re at a carnival, not when you’re dealing with a washing machine that isn’t even a year old. UGHHHHHHH.

And because the universe enjoys piling on, I’ve also got an early‑morning haircut today, followed by tackling one of the spare bedrooms — both bedrooms have been in a state of post‑remodeling chaos since last September. I keep walking past them thinking, “I should really clean that up,” and then immediately choosing fun life activities instead. They currently look like storage units curated by a hoarders convention.

Meanwhile, this 1963 doo‑wop 45 I’m spinning is fantastic — absolutely fantastic — but it showed up to the party about three years too late. By ’63, the airwaves were already shifting, and this poor little record was out here trying to harmonize its way through a musical landscape that had moved on. Great sound, wrong era. Shame.

Johnny Fortune - Soul Surfer / Midnight Surf

I woke up yesterday feeling like a man with a destiny, a Johnny Fortune so to speak— and that destiny was apparently 120 Black Gospel, soul, and rock 45s from a Baptist Minister’s stash. Marketplace dangled that container in front of me like a carrot, and I, being a simple record‑obsessed creature, lunged for it.

I messaged the guy, he said he was an hour away, and boom — mission accepted. This is where Super Cooper enters the chat.

I looked at him and said, “You wanna go on a car ride?” Buddy… he didn’t just want to go. He activated. He sprinted to his harness like he was auditioning for a Marvel origin story. He vibrated. He wiggled. He dragged me to the Rogue like he had insider intel on the Minister’s collection and needed to secure the goods before the FBI did.

We hit the road. Android Auto, in its infinite wisdom, decided to take me on a scenic tour of Fayetteville’s Wrong Street. Instead of taking me to the seller’s house, it confidently guided me to an abandoned warehouse that looked like the opening shot of a true‑crime documentary. Not even the right street. Not even the right vibe. Cooper stared at the building like it owed him money. I messaged the guy, trying not to sound like someone who was about to be recruited into a cult. He gave me a main cross street, so I headed that way, basically navigating on instinct — a lark, a whim, a “sure, let’s see what happens” approach to geography. And somehow, miraculously, I found his place. Android Auto still insisted I was wrong even while I was physically in the driveway, which is peak Android Auto behavior.

But I got there. I plopped over the cash. Then he hit me with the classic dealer line: “Do you want albums too?”

Sir. You cannot say that to me. That’s like asking a raccoon if it wants more garbage.

He had a small stack — I flipped through and saw Blue Note jazz LPs. My wallet opened itself like a Venus flytrap. Extra money handed over. Cooper supervised the transaction like a dog who knows a good deal when he sees one.

Back home, I glanced through the haul. Not as much gospel as I hoped, but plenty of interesting 45s — Who can argue when a white‑label Chuck Berry on Chess is staring you in the face? The 45s were absolutely worth the price.

So feeling pleased with my self, I am sharing Johnny “Sudetta” Fortune, who apparently put out more 45s than I put out excuses for not organizing my collection. This one was his big regional hit, and he did a ton of session work. But honestly? Even if the music was just him sneezing rhythmically, that label design alone is worth framing.

The Louvin Brothers - The Family Who Prays/I Love Gods' Way of Living/Born Again/If We Forget God

Talk about a 360. I know — you’re probably looking at this post like, “This is not a Peacock 45 or some obscure black gospel gem you dragged out of the crates.” And you’re right. But here’s the thing I don’t always admit out loud: I’ve got a soft spot for the Louvin Brothers. And not just a casual appreciation — I mean the kind where you see a Louvin record in the wild and your hand grabs it before your brain even checks the price.

Last year I scored a copy of Satan Is Real, and that cover… good grief. It’s iconic, it’s ridiculous, it’s frightening, and it’s perfect. It looks like a Sunday school fever dream staged by two men who absolutely believed every word they were singing — even when one of them was living like the devil had him on retainer.

To me, the Louvin Brothers are the epitome of the human condition in relation to faith — messy, contradictory, hopeful, and tragic. I know not everyone believes in GOD, or at least not the Christian GOD I believe in. Free will means everyone gets to choose their own road. But I’ve noticed something over the years: non‑believers seem to relish it when a believer stumbles. Like it’s proof that faith is a costume instead of a compass.

But stumbling is the human condition. We’re not perfect. We can’t be perfect. We fail — sometimes spectacularly — and yet faith doesn’t evaporate just because we fall short of the ideal. If anything, faith becomes more real in the falling.

Ira Louvin is the perfect example of that contradiction. I genuinely believe he had faith — deep faith — but he also lived the kind of life that makes you wonder if he had an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, both screaming directions at the same time. Married four times. Heavy drinker. Womanizer. A volcanic temper that could melt steel. Shot six times by his third wife after beating her and trying to strangle her. It’s safe to say Ira wasn’t exactly living the gospel he sang.

So was he saved? Was he pretending? Or was he just a man caught in the eternal tug‑of‑war between the better angels of our nature and the darker corners we don’t like to admit exist? That’s the psychological battle we all face — what shapes us, what breaks us, what we carry, and what we never outrun. Ira wasn’t just a musician or a cautionary tale; he was a man writing songs about heaven while sprinting toward hell with a gas can in his hand. And honestly, that contradiction feels painfully human.

Here’s a thought: Ira wasn’t writing those songs to prove he was righteous — he was writing them because he knew he wasn’t. People who struggle the hardest often turn their hymns into confessions. Gospel harmonies become lifelines thrown from a sinking boat.

Ira’s songs sound like a man who wanted to change but didn’t know how to stop being himself. That’s what hits me in the chest — the idea that someone can hold deep faith and deep flaws at the same time. That someone can sing about heaven while wrestling with every earthly demon. That someone can believe in GOD with all their heart and still fall short in ways that make people shake their heads. That’s the human condition. That’s the tug‑of‑war we all feel, even if our battles aren’t as dramatic as Ira’s.

Ira died the way he lived — in chaos and irony. A drunk driver hit him and his wife on the way to a show. Too on the nose to be real, but that’s life: messy, unfair, poetic in the worst ways.

And then there’s Charlie. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the exhaustion of watching someone you love self‑destruct. The way their partnership ended not because the music failed, but because Ira couldn’t outrun his own shadow. I read that Charlie spent his final years letting go of the long‑held resentment toward Ira, finding peace through age, faith, and reflection.

So I wonder if they met again — on that heavenly plane, in some place where the noise of this world finally quiets. I like to imagine Charlie seeing Ira not as the man who hurt people, or drank too much, or burned every bridge he crossed… but as the brother whose voice once matched his perfectly. The brother who tried. The brother who sang about salvation even when he couldn’t find it.

I like to imagine GOD saying, “You two have done enough hurting. Now heal.”

And maybe that’s sentimental. Maybe it’s naïve. But faith itself is a kind of hope — the belief that broken things can be mended, that lost people can be found, that brothers can reconcile in ways they never managed on earth.

But I will hold onto this thought: despite all the darkness, all the contradictions, all the human wreckage, the music remains good. Charlie and Ira gave us something beautiful, something honest, something that still resonates long after the needle lifts.

Life is a struggle. Faith is a struggle. Being human is a struggle. But the music? The music is the part that survives.

The Canadian Rogues– Run And Hide / Love And Dreams

I picked up this absolute monster a few years back — right here locally, which still feels like spotting a moose in a Walmart parking lot. The Canadian Rogues. From Lakeland, Florida. It’s the kind of geographical plot twist that makes me wonder if the universe is just messing with me for sport. Perfect, honestly, because if you’ve ever been in Florida during winter, you know it turns into a temporary Canadian province. Snowbirds everywhere. You can practically hear the faint echo of “sorry” drifting across the Gulf (of Mexico).

And I do wonder — with the current bullshit arena we’re all watching unfold — whether Florida’s getting boycotted by the Canadian snowbirds. I picture them holding emergency meetings: “Okay, lads, we’re skipping Florida this year. Too spicy. We’re going to… Jamaica.” Then they all nod solemnly and eat Timbits.

Anyway — flashback to Clearwater, ten years ago, when I was down there taking care of my mother‑in‑law’s place. I wandered into this record store that looked like it had been hit by a 45‑rpm tornado. Boxes everywhere. Stacks. Piles. Geological layers of vinyl sediment. And there’s this guy — list in hand — hunting obscure doo‑wop like he’s on a government mission. From Canada, of course. Wintering in Florida. Naturally. The ecosystem is consistent.

This Canadian Rogues 45? Fantastic two‑sider. First Paris Tower label I ever found. And you KNOW I’m a sucker for extras —pictures, flyers, weird little promo writeups, anything that looks like it was photocopied in 1965 by a guy named Earl. I live for that stuff.

So here’s the plan for my Saturday: I am going to relish the start of my vacation like a man who has earned it through sheer stubbornness. Sure, I’ll have to work a few hours during the week — because apparently, I enjoy punishing myself — but mostly it’s going to be me, the computer, a stack of 45s, and the sweet hum of digitizing songs like some kind of vinyl‑powered monk.

And then? Colorado game prep. Manifesting a big beatdown so we can be 2–0, baby. Sko Buffs. I want the kind of victory that makes the opposing team question their sport choices and maybe take up pottery.