The Keys of Heaven Ensemble - How Long Has It Been /Calling An Operator

Gospel 45s are almost always worn to the bone—grooves softened by decades of hands, turntables, and Sunday‑morning repetition—unless you’re lucky enough to unearth untouched store stock. The Keys of Heaven Ensemble (a name that already feels like a stained‑glass window glowing in late‑day sun) reaches straight into the chest.

This Richmond, Virginia 45 doesn’t just start; it awakens. First come the crackles—like rain tapping on an old tin roof—then the static thins out, peeling away until the voice rises through the haze. Suddenly the message is clear, warm, and close enough to feel on your skin: Oh Children, How Long Has It Been Since You’ve Been Home.

“Calling An Operator” made its way onto this blog back in 2023 as "Operator – Long Distance” , credited only to an unknown group under the simple name Gospel. I loved that mysterious version, but S. Robinson brings a different electricity—like someone tightening the focus on a lens until the whole scene snaps into clarity.

The Action - Winsom's Melody/ Hang On Sloopy

From the great white north drifts this charming little 45 from the Action—a name so gloriously generic it almost loops back around to being bold. But what is bold is their slow‑motion, hold‑your‑best‑girl‑tight take on “Hang On Sloopy,” a cover that feels like it was meant for dim lights and a dance floor that’s just starting to spin.

Flip to the A‑side and suddenly you’re hit with chiming guitars, a rolling bass line, and handclaps that sparkle like someone tapping out joy on the inside of your skull. It’s the kind of sound that turns an ordinary Saturday into a tiny celebration.

Chuck Jackson - Never Let Me Go/Baby I Want To Marry You

Catching up on the old blog feels a bit like sweeping the floor of a long‑abandoned record shop — clearing out the draft posts I’ve let pile up like bottle caps in a forgotten drawer. I’m compulsive about my records but easily lured away by whatever new sound drifts through the air. One fresh melody, and suddenly the things I meant to finish get pushed to the back of the crate.

That’s where Chuck ended up — filed under “later,” which, if we’re honest, was the story of his whole career. He never cracked the pop stratosphere; his biggest pop single stalled at #23 and he hovered in the middle of the proverbial chart pack, as evidenced by my only other Chuck post. He fared better on the R&B charts and other artists took his songs further than he ever did, while he kept circling the edges, steady but unsung.

When I’m crate‑digging, it’s almost a guarantee that a Wand‑label 45 that I see will have his name on it, like a quiet reminder I still haven’t given him his due. Maybe that’s my loss. The world certainly lost something when he left us in 2023 at 85 — a voice I’m only now realizing I should have listened to sooner.

 

Hollywood Jills- A Good Thing Baby/He Makes Me So Bad

The secret surprises lurking in my unorganized boxes never fail to amaze me. I keep telling myself I should pull out the interesting things and put them all in one respectable, grown‑up box to research later…but honestly, leaving them scattered feels like Christmas morning engineered by a slightly confused elf. Every time I open a box, I’m basically gifting myself something I forgot I owned.

This weekend’s surprise? Hollywood Jills, rising out of a random box like a phoenix who took a wrong turn and ended up in my hit or miss boxes. They started on a tiny New Orleans label before Capitol swooped in like, “We’ll take that!”—only for the whole thing to drift into obscurity. Or so I thought. When Rhino resurrected the “B” side for their 2005 girl‑group box set (still on my to‑pick‑up list, naturally), they treated it as a lost gem worth spotlighting. But I’m presenting it the way Capitol originally intended: A‑side / B‑side, no revisionist reshuffling.

And maybe that’s why it slipped into obscurity in the first place—filed away as a secondary track, never given the oxygen an A‑side gets, left to drift until someone decades later decided it deserved another chance. Capitol got it. Rhino got it. And now my ears finally get it too, fashionably late but enthusiastically.

Soul Asylum - Something Out Of Nothing/Freaks/To Sir With Love/Marionette

The last Soul Asylum 12” I’ll be sharing for a while sits in my hands like a relic from a forgotten kingdom. For a while, I say — though somewhere in the record archives lurks another Soul Asylum 12" I’ve misplaced, a fact that gnaws at me with a slow, maddening frustration.

Oh, Soul Asylum… the beautiful, sloppy, unappreciated misfits of their era. They should have been crowned royalty, but instead they were tossed into the dust bins while lesser bands strutted across the stage. Only when Columbia came calling did they finally ascend the throne — but those A&M years? Those should have made them legends, the undisputed bosses of the whole scene.

I’ve spent years obsessing over Cooper, and I realize I’ve neglected my quieter companions — my feline confidants. Today belongs to K.C. He’s not feeling well, and the vet visit today left him wary, wounded in pride more than body. He’s five years old, a distant observer by nature, the kind of cat who watches the world from the shadows as if judging its every move.

When I picked him up today, he looked at me with a betrayal so profound I’m convinced he won’t let me near him again until the end of days.

And beneath all of this sits a softer ache: his sister, Izabo, whom we lost last year. Her absence lingers like a quiet, persistent echo.

Superchunk Crossed Wires/Blinders

The video for this Superchunk song is such a tiny masterpiece of brilliance that I simply had to deliver it to you like a freshly baked treat from the Internet’s secret bakery of wonders. As a lifelong cat enthusiast, I’ve hosted more furry roommates than I can reasonably keep track of, and at the moment our household boasts five indoor kitties and one outdoor momma who supervises the property like a tiny, whiskered landlady.

Cooper, ever the diplomat, adores his feline companions — but only one has earned the coveted title of Best Buddy: Princess Rian, though around here she answers mostly to Princess Pussface. We brought her and her sister inside ages ago (their momma, the outdoor landlord, prefers the great outdoors; we got her fixed, tried to introduce her to indoor life, and she responded with the vibe of a cat who has drafted a formal complaint and signed it with one perfect pawprint.

Princess Pussface, at first, wanted nothing to do with any of us. She perfected the art of the aloof royal glare… until she noticed the other cats having a riotous time. That’s when she surrendered to the dark side — or, more accurately, the fun side — and immediately decided Cooper was her chosen one.

But back to the video. I’ve only ever had one cat who might’ve been capable of starring in it if he’d been allowed to roam the neighborhood like a tiny, chaotic troubadour. Julian was mine — a heart full of affection and a brain full of schemes that definitely weren’t approved by management. He crossed the rainbow bridge about five years ago, but oh, he was a devil. A glorious, mischievous devil. He climbed everything, treated gravity like a personal challenge, and had a particular fondness for stealing my plastic record sleeves so he could surf them down the stairs like a feline Evel Knievel.

I miss Julian. He was trouble wrapped in fur, and he made the world more interesting.

 

  

The Sandells - Scrambler/Out Front

This Memorial Day handed me a day off like a slightly crumpled coupon someone forgot in their pocket — still valid, still delightful. It is also granting me the noble quest of trading my unwanted 45s for someone else’s hopefully‑coveted 45s, a ritual that feels a bit like vinyl speed‑dating. And, of course, I am treating myself to some boss sounds from the Sandals (or their earlier name Sandells), because nothing says “holiday spirit” like surf‑soaked guitar lines and Hot Rod soundz trying to high‑five your eardrums.

Naturally, in true Noize fashion, I recorded the B‑side first. Why? Because I operate on a personal timeline known only to me, the moon, and possibly Cooper. — and also, because the B‑side is my favorite. Oh, but who am I kidding — the A‑side doesn’t just hold its own, it struts in with a grin, carrying enough voltage to light up the whole block. The revving engines rise behind it like a rowdy chorus, and Out-Front comes screaming through the mix, turning the whole moment into a wild parade of sound and swagger.

So I sit here with my coffee and let the Surf sound hit me with its usual Monday magic, blasting through my speakers like a caffeinated seagull with a mission, giving me the Monday boost I didn’t technically need, since Cooper — the wonder dog, part canine, part motivational speaker — had already taken me on a walk so invigorating it could’ve been marketed as a spiritual awakening. He strutted along as if he’d been personally appointed to raise the nation’s morale, and honestly, the nation could use a generous dose of whatever brand of positive moral fiber he’s handing out.

The Chariot Gospel Singers - Tell Him / Thank You

I know I lean heavily on the Peacock label, but honestly — why shouldn’t this greatness be shared? Peacock may have been based in Texas, yet its reach stretched far beyond state lines. Take The Chariot Gospel Singers, for example. They hailed from Ohio, and a quick search reveals they were formed by Henry Bossard, a former member of the legendary Swan Silvertones — a group that has already graced this blog three times. Connections like that are exactly why I keep coming back to this label’s catalog. It’s a whole universe of gospel brilliance waiting to be rediscovered.

 

The Bossmen - Hey Congratulations/Bad Girl

Saturday obscurity at its finest. And yes, I’m cheating a little. Back in 2012 I posted the Dick Wagner & The Frost 45 “Bad Girl” on Date — complete with the elusive picture sleeve. Today’s mail‑order treasure? A “Bossmen” single pairing “Hey Congratulations” with (surprise!) “Bad Girl.”

I dropped the needle and immediately thought, Wow, this sounds exactly like Wagner’s version. Well, kiddies, peeps, children of the revolution — that’s because the Bossmen were basically Dick Wagner with a band name attached. (No, I didn’t research whether they were the same lineup as The Frost. There are only so many hours in a day and I need at least two of them for coffee.)

My quick dive into Wagner’s résumé turned up things I had absolutely no clue about. Apparently he was recruited to play on Lou Reed’s Berlin, then became musical director for the Rock ’n’ Roll Animal tour, rearranging Velvet Underground songs for both the shows and the record.

And then it gets better — absurdly, cosmically better. How, you ask? Well, you — my followers with rock‑and‑roll IQs so high they need their own air‑traffic control — probably already knew that Wagner was one of the dueling guitar sorcerers on Rock ’n’ Roll Animal. Yes, that “Sweet Jane” intro, the one that sounds like the gates of heaven opening for a leather‑jacketed angel.

How did I not know this, considering that album has been welded to my soul since forever?Now the fact is lodged in my brain like a glittering shard of trivia, and I can only wonder which perfectly useful piece of knowledge it shoved aside to make room. My PIN number? My anniversary? The location of my car keys? Hard to say. The mind is a chaotic jukebox.

Lou Reed has only made one appearance here so far, which is frankly negligent on my part. I’ll fix that. Eventually.

The Elgins-You Found Yourself Another Fool/Street Scene

The weekend — no, let’s give it its proper title, the glorious Three‑Day Weekend — is creeping up, so allow me to seduce your senses with some sweet, swooning, soul‑soaked goodness. — the kind of record that the buying public completely ignored at the time, proving once again that history has terrible taste. What was once a bargain‑bin wallflower has now become a hard‑to‑find luxury — like stumbling across its brilliance at a yard sale, a flash of treasure so startling and luminous it makes you wonder who on earth let such a marvel slip away in the first place.

We’re dealing with one of those “who had the name first?” situations. Unfortunately for this particular group of Elgins, they had zero chart action, so they politely step aside for Motown’s V.I.P. Elgins — the more famous vocal group who actually got invited to the party. But this final 45 of theirs? It outshines the “other” Elgins so thoroughly it should come with sunglasses.

Released in the overcrowded musical jungle of 1965 on the Valiant label — a label so obscure it practically came pre‑filed under “forgotten” — the record eventually found salvation thanks to the northern soul crowd, who have a talent for rescuing neglected masterpieces.

“Street Scene,” with its slow‑burn In‑Crowd vibe, was apparently the intended A‑side. Cute. But it’s the B‑side, “You Found Yourself Another Fool,” that does the real seducing. This copy someone doodled on the label, which I choose to interpret as physical evidence of the moment the song hijacked their brain. Fair enough — it grabbed mine too.

Ria And The Revellons -She Fell In Love/He's Not There

Crackly Ria and The Revellons crash‑landed onto my Thursday Girl Soundz like they’d been smuggled in by a time‑traveling jukebox. They started with that Shangri‑Las swagger, but then—bam!—my brain did a cartwheel and suddenly I’m hearing David Johansen from the New York Dolls yelling from the corner of the room. Wild how your mind just grabs two unrelated records and insists they’re cousins.

Anyway, this was another one of those flea‑market miracles, the kind where you find treasure only if you’ve got a few crumpled bills and a reckless spirit. I took the plunge (because you know I’m powerless against those girl‑group harmonies), even though the vinyl looks like it spent fourteen summers as a dog’s favorite frisbee. And the marker scribbles? Absolutely the work of a DJ who had given up on life and possibly gravity.

Sonny Curtis- Talk About My Baby/Red Headed Stranger

We lost Sonny Curtis last September, and his passing drifted by like a quiet chord change — subtle, almost unnoticed, but leaving the air different once it was gone. His songs traveled farther than most people realize, landing in the hands of artists as wildly different as the Everly Brothers, Bobby Vee and the Clash, Hüsker Dü and the Dead Kennedy's. And of course, before all that, he was a Cricket, standing right there in the glow of Buddy Holly’s early brilliance.

He never scored a blockbuster hit under his own name, but his recording career ran deep, wide, and wonderfully strange — proof enough in this 1960 45. Red Headed Stranger may have worn the A‑side crown, but it’s Talk About My Baby that hits me square in the sweet spot, the way only a perfectly cut, slightly forgotten gem can.

The Jags- Here Comes My Baby

Powerpop Heaven — the kind of bliss that hits like a sugar rush straight to the soul. The Jags don’t just cover this Cat Stevens classic; they kidnap it, give it an energy drink, and launch it into orbit. The second it starts, you’re bopping down the road like you’ve been personally chosen as Earth’s Ambassador of Cool.

This song takes over your entire nervous system. If I’m blasting it in the car, my head starts shaking so wildly that nearby drivers probably start rehearsing their “I witnessed everything” statements for the police. And honestly? I’ve never heard a version of this song that doesn’t absolutely melt my brain in the best possible way.

The Shadows - Apache

Honestly, as cheeky as I can get, let’s talk about the Shadows and the absolute circus of them never cracking the U.S. charts, because at this point it feels like the universe misplaced a memo, spilled tea on it, and then blamed the dog. In Britain they were a proper big deal — striding about with that crisp, twangy instrumental sound that should have slid right into the American surf scene like a greased‑up beach ball (oops, it did, later courtesy of the Ventures, who basically said, “Move aside lads, we’ll handle the American bit”). And no, they weren’t some plucky little outfit recording in a shed behind a fish‑and‑chips shop; they were on proper labels with what should have been proper distribution, doing everything short of strapping the records to a flock of carrier pigeons and hoping for the best.

They did have to ditch their original name, the Drifters, after the other Drifters in the States said, “Absolutely not,” which is fair enough. But honestly, “the Shadows” sounds far more dangerous — like a band that might steal your girl, your amplifier, and possibly your lunch if you leave it unattended. Cliff Richard (born Harry Webb, because of course he was) started out with them, and together they racked up a deliciously naughty total of 69 charting singles — 35 with Cliff, 34 on their own. Yes, yes, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, you cheeky devil.

And then — oh, buckle up — there’s “Apache.” The Shadows crafted this moody, cinematic, desert‑mirage fever dream of a masterpiece… and who gets the U.S. hit? Jørgen Ingmann. Lovely chap, I’m sure, but let’s be honest: his version is the store‑brand cereal next to the Shadows’ full‑sugar, name‑brand original — the kind that comes with a free toy and a mild sense of superiority.

There is no comparison. There is only the Shadows, glowing like a radioactive jukebox in the night, and America, tragically wearing noise‑canceling headphones.

And just when you think the “Apache” drama couldn’t get any spicier, in march the Ventures — not tiptoeing, not politely knocking, but barging in like, “Hello, yes, we’ll be taking this now.” They didn’t just cover it on their highest charting album “Plays Telstar”; they covered it as masters, the musical equivalent of walking into a room wearing sunglasses indoors and announcing, “We’re professionals, darling.”

So now you’ve got the Shadows with the OG, Jørgen Ingmann politely collecting the U.S. hit like he’s picking up a parcel at the post office, and the Ventures strutting in with full “we own this surf‑rock kingdom” energy. It’s chaos. It’s drama. It’s a love triangle, but with guitars and questionable haircuts.

Meanwhile, the Shadows’ version is still sitting there, legs crossed, eyebrow raised, quietly judging everyone because it knows — it knows — it’s the superior one.

Sister Josephine James- Look Down Upon Me/Lord I Believe

Yesterday unraveled the way my cats unravel a ball of string — with enthusiasm, zero strategy, and a trail of chaos that somehow feels personal. I slipped out to the yard sales — a covert little treasure hunt — only to find that every driveway had transformed into a graveyard of forgotten objects. The old saying “my junk could be your junk” didn’t stand a chance. I’ve already got enough of my own junk auditioning for space in my house.

I did manage to mow the lawn, but the idea of digging through the shed to find the shears felt like an archaeological expedition I wasn’t emotionally prepared for. And the bush trimmer? The thought of plugging it in felt like too much commitment for a Saturday.

The real chaos started with the new router. I had this whole plan: install it, bask in the glow of improved Wi‑Fi, then hang new curtains like a domestic champion. Instead, the router decided to audition for the role of “Most Useless Piece of Technology.” The company swore their app would handle everything “effortlessly,” which was true only if “effortlessly” means “not at all.”

Meanwhile, Wifey was growing increasingly irritated because no internet meant no Roku, which meant no TV, which meant the household mood was deteriorating fast. After two hours of digital purgatory, I finally called the company. A technician swooped in — not through their precious app, but through an old‑fashioned browser window. She was fantastic. The app, however, remains a mystery wrapped in incompetence. Why direct customers to a tool that works about as well as a screen door on a submarine?

Anyway — back to the real heart of the day: another Peacock 45 arrived in the mail. Funny thing, I almost never stumble across the R&B Peacock 45s in the wild, and the spiritual Peacock 78s only surface once in a blue moon. I’ve got a battered copy of Big Mama Thornton’s Hound Dog on both 45 and 78, but I’ve never held an original Peacock sleeve in my hands.

I do have a few Sister Josephine James 45s, though. A little digging suggests she passed in 2019 — and she was the sister of Reverend Cleophus Robinson, whose voice I adore. Funny how a single record can open a door into a whole family’s history.

Chuck Berry - Too Much Monkey Business/Brown Eyed Handsome Man

This brown‑eyed, thoroughly average man has officially survived another work week — a true triumph worthy of a parade, or at least a chicken biscuit. Now I’m staring down a list of honey‑do tasks before I can officially declare today a “me day.”… except for a tiny bit of monkey business. I’m planning to sneak out to a few local yard sales — very hush‑hush, very undercover… sshhh, this mission is strictly classified from the wife.

Yesterday I even slipped out of work early under the noble banner of “running errands.” which, to be fair, I technically did. … But while I was out, a few thrift stores mysteriously appeared in my path — as they do — and I wandered in. Shockingly, I actually found some records worth grabbing — a rare event, since those bins usually look like a retirement home for unwanted polka albums.

Naturally, right as I’m feeling victorious, my phone rings. It’s my wife, casually asking if I’m at the grocery store yet? Meanwhile, I’m standing in the thrift store holding vinyl like a kid caught with both hands in the cookie jar. My “other mission” had not yet been disclosed.

Busted. Absolutely, undeniably busted.

The Entertainers - Too Much/I Tried To Tell You

I crashed into bed early last night, completely wrung out from the week — honestly, from the last two weeks. It feels like I’ve been sprinting a marathon, and the next stretch doesn’t look any slower. At this point, I’m convinced I need to schedule an official ME Day, complete with capital letters and zero responsibilities.

Today’s adventure brings us yet another group called “The Entertainers.” Not exactly a groundbreaking name, and it makes me wonder who the original Entertainers were — the first brave souls who said, “Yes, this is it, this is our identity.” I’ve numbered them according to the Discogs list, though that system is… generous, let’s say. The so‑called “first” Entertainers — the one without a number — turns out to be a beach group from 1980s South Carolina. Which means the one I’m dealing with today, #6, clearly predates them by a long shot. The whole thing feels like a mystery wrapped in a filing error.

Queen - Calling All Girls

What a groggy morning, but now I am back in my teenage bedroom with with what I felt was the standout track from Hot Space. I remember buying the LP new and spinning it on the turntable.  Hot Space really didn't do well for the band and this song stalled at #60. I always thought Roger Taylor brought forward solid songs and I guess you could guess that as the 2 Queen songs I have uploaded were written by Roger. 

The Teenage Moonbeems - Teen Age Baby/Cryin The Blues

I am so looking forward to the weekend based on how busy this work week has been. Of course my wife already has started coming up with a list of things I will need to take care of before I can play...oh the humanity!

Picked up this promo Checker 45 at the flea market in March. A little rough but played nicely. This is quite a departure from what has been on my turntable the last few days. I played some new mailorder arrivals. Let's see I played the new Son Volt LP, the new Social Distortion Lp, and 2 record store day Noctorum lp's (Marty Willson-Piper from the Church), then I went into the archives and pulled out a Graham Parker LP and a NAZZ lp. I have some microsoft teams meetings today so I am not sure I will have the space to put on any records but if I do it will be the RSD XTC LP, the RSD Bob Brady lp and I have a James Brown LP staring me in the face begging to be played

Greg Kihn Band - Roadrunner

It was a little chilly this morning but Cooper and I had a nice walk, except for the train. The train is so loud and hurts Coopers (and my) ears. Most mornings we miss it but not this morning. We had to hang out behind a builiding to wait for it to pass by.

This morning we have Greg Kihn channeling Jonathan Richman