The Allen Bradley Quintet - Space Race /Slow Rock

I like to start my mornings the same way any reasonable person would: wandering the neighborhood with Cooper while listening to Coast to Coast AM on my headphones like some kind of suburban conspiracy monk. Thanks to Sirius FM, I get to restart the show just as it’s ending — which feels a little like cheating time, but I’ll allow it.

If you’ve ever listened to that show, you know it’s basically a rotating buffet of conspiracies, supernatural, health topics and all things Space. Aliens, UFOs, interdimensional cousins, cosmic hitchhikers, crop circles (last night's show) — the whole celestial cast. And bless their hearts, some of these guests truly believe the government is sloooowly “disclosing” alien contact. As in: any day now, the folks who can’t even disclose what’s in a budget report are going to hand us the cosmic truth on a silver platter. Sure. Right after they alphabetize Area 51.

Disclosure? Please. It’s Deception with a capital D, and they’ve been running that program since Roswell was just a twinkle in someone’s classified file. If there is an Area 51 — or Area 52, or Area 867‑5309 — they’re not sharing squat. But we keep trying, because humans are nothing if not persistent little space‑groupies.

Do I believe there’s life elsewhere in the universe? Absolutely. The universe is massive — absurdly massive — and I refuse to believe God looked at billions of galaxies and said, “Nah, one species is enough.” Especially when we humans have spent thousands of years being… well, predictable. And obviously embarrassing.

We’ve always been obsessed with space. Stars guided our travel, our calendars, our myths — basically everything except our ability to stop losing socks in the dryer. WWII kicked technology into overdrive, and suddenly we were flinging ourselves off the planet like, “Let’s see what’s out there!” Naturally, music followed. Because if humans are going to explore the cosmos, we’re bringing a soundtrack.

Enter the Allen Bradley Quintet in the late ’50s, capitalizing on the Space Race and the birth of rock. But honestly? My favorite part of this disc isn’t even the music — it’s the label. Specifically, the fact that Jose Duarte demanded credit for the sound effects. You just know he said, “I’ll help, but my name better be on that label. Don’t play with me.”

And then — the cherry on top — I managed to dig up an old Okeh sleeve from my boxes. Nothing like matching a space‑themed 45 with a vintage sleeve to make the universe wink at you.

So buckle up, strap on your helmet, and race to the moon with me. Take me to your "leader" but try to do it voluntarily and not via abduction on the way. And if we do meet an Alien Leader out there, fingers crossed they’re smarter and more peaceful than the ones we’ve currently got running the show.

Hi Way Que C's - Conditions Of The World / Going To See The King

Sometimes I take weeks of preparation for these posts, little nudges and breadcrumbs long before I sit down to write. And then sometimes—like today—it’s an hour before posting, and the story arrives exactly when it’s meant to. This is one of those hour‑before blessings.

I shared a Hi Way Que C’s 45 a little over two years ago, and now I’m finally circling back to another one. What a remarkable testimony this group carries: more than seventy years of singing, serving, and staying rooted. Founded in 1945, touched by voices like Sam Cooke, Lou Rawls, Roscoe Robinson, and Johnnie Taylor—names that echo through American music like scripture through a sanctuary.

One story stopped me in my tracks: in 1949, on their first tour with Sam, they ran out of gas and money on the way to Detroit. So they sent Sam out to sing with a hat in hand, and people filled that hat until the tank—and the journey—could continue. There’s something holy in that image: a young Sam Cooke singing roadside, provision arriving through strangers, the road opening again. A reminder that sometimes God sends help in the simplest, most unexpected ways.

And then there’s Spencer Taylor Jr., called by some the Godfather of Quartet Music. He joined in 1956 and led the group faithfully until his passing nearly a year ago, at the “young old” age of 97. I read he was still touring in his 90s—still carrying the Gospel, still lifting people’s spirits, still doing the work he was called to do. While others crossed over into mainstream pop, soul and funk, Spencer stayed anchored in the music of praise. A life lived in service, in devotion, in purpose.

This record isn’t just a 45—it’s a piece of a long, steady walk with God. A walk taken by men who sang through hardship, through joy, through decades of change, and never lost sight of the One they were singing for.

Velvet Illusions - Acid Head/She Was The Only Girl

Sometimes online auctions go sideways, and sometimes they go full clown car. A few years back I shelled out way too much money for some lots of 45s from a guy who absolutely stiffed me with Grade‑A, FDA‑approved garbage. And yes, yes, I know — buyer beware, especially when you’re dealing with some mystery dude whose profile picture looks like it was taken with a potato.

So there I am, staring at two boxes of pure, uncut crap — the kind of crap that definitely did not match the picture he posted. I’m talking “this was photographed in a parallel universe” levels of mismatch. The picture the seller posted was a Velvet Illusion — all smooth, dreamy, and whispering, “Look at me, I’m flawless.” But the records received were the gritty reminder of how people can be crooked. Honestly, the records were stuff into 3 boxes with no care, and the boxes had rips, open areas where records sloshed around, and it was a wonder nothing fell out or were smashed to smithereens. It was the kind of purchase where collectors should get hazard pay. At least I got a partial refund. But buried in that landfill of disappointment was… a gem. A real one. The kind of record that makes you blink twice and wonder if the vinyl gods accidentally smiled on you while you weren’t looking.

Now, you might ask, “Well hey, doesn’t that make the whole thing worth it?” And honestly? No. Not really. Because it wasn’t about the money — it was about not wanting to be taken advantage of by someone who clearly was out to take advantage of others. He sure doesn't know records. If he did know records, he would’ve yanked that gem out of the box so fast it would’ve left a cartoon dust cloud.

But here’s the kicker: I’m an ethical person. Painfully ethical. The kind of ethical where I want everyone else to meet me at my moral altitude, even though half the world is still wandering around the basement like thugs. So yes — I guess I’m naïve. I walk into these situations expecting honor, integrity, and maybe a little common sense, and instead in this case I get a dude selling me boxes of vinyl compost.

At least the gem survived the journey. And at least I can laugh about it now… mostly.

The Dynamic Upsetters - Try Me /Make Myself Clear

I slept nearly 8½ hours last night, which feels medically suspicious. My body is clearly trying to send me a memo titled “Sit Down, Fool, your work is taking a toll.” And despite all that sleep, I still woke up feeling like I’d been lightly run over by a mid‑sized sedan. Cooper didn’t get his morning walk, which means he spent the early hours pacing around like a disappointed personal trainer who can’t believe his client skipped leg day.

It’s been another long, long week of work — the kind of week where you start fantasizing about taking a full seven days off just to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until your brain reboots. I need rest. I need recuperation. I need to be gently placed in a hammock and left there until further notice.

Yesterday was Princess Pussface’s vet day, which she took about as well as you’d expect from a cat who believes any enclosed space is a government conspiracy. The last time she went, the vet staff declared her “a regular Tasmanian Devil,” which surprised me because she is, in fact, the sweetest creature alive and Cooper’s ride‑or‑die bestie. But sure, call her feral. Whatever.

So I put her in the crate, and she gave me this tragic, Victorian‑child‑in‑an‑orphanage look, like I was escorting her to the gallows. I tried to reassure her, but she was fully committed to her role as “Wronged Heroine in a Period Drama.”

Thankfully, the vet met with me instead of doing the drop‑off routine. He said the odds of her having FIP like Tazzie were astronomically low — in all his years he’s only seen three cases. He was convinced it was allergies and honestly couldn’t believe this calm, polite little fluff was the same cat who tried to reenact Mad Max: Fury Road in his office earlier this summer.

She got a shot, I got meds to give her, and we went home. She was happy. The whole house was happy. And yes — keep the prayers up for her quick recovery. Princess Pussface deserves only the best.

Now, onto the Friday Soul Post: North Carolina Modern Soul, that sits well with my morning coffee. When you find records like these, you don’t ask questions. You just hand over the money and accept your fate like a responsible adult with questionable impulse control.

Julie London - Yummy, Yummy, Yummy/Come To Me Slowly

So apparently my “day off” heard the words day off and responded, “Cute. Anyway…”

First up: the washer. A technician finally peeked inside and declared, with the confidence of a man diagnosing a spaceship, that the motherboard has gone rogue. One bad component. One. Singular. And now I get to play the thrilling game of Guess How Long This Will Take To Fix, a game with no rules, no timeline, and no prizes.

Then came the roof contractor, who arrived to give me an estimate while I stood there like a man auditioning for the role of Responsible Adult #3 in a low‑budget sitcom. Add in my domestic hubby duties and suddenly I’m basically a one‑man HGTV episode.

Princess did not visit the vet yesterday as he was offs. She’ll be dropped off this morning, hopefully without reenacting the Tazzie tear fest- we can't take any more loss. Her symptoms don’t seem quite as dramatic, but if meds are needed, Chewy has become my new discount pet pharmacy overlord. Still expensive, but at least it doesn’t require selling a kidney.

The request for Louie Louie by Julie London sent my mind spiraling straight into the memory vault. The first time I heard Julie doing Louie Louie — mind blown. Not metaphorically. I mean actual brain confetti.

And where did this life‑altering moment occur? An elevator. An elevator.

I bought it the same day I picked up Yummy Yummy Yummy, which means my brain was double‑detonated in one afternoon. I’ve even got a German import of the Yummy Yummy LP sitting around like a neglected treasure chest. I really need to pull that out again and give it a spin.

I still wonder what Julie thought when someone handed her that track list. Probably something like: “Wait… you want me to sing what now?”

updated Louie Louie

 https://poppacool.blogspot.com/2010/10/julie-london-louie-louie.html

John Day - You're A Big Boy Now/New World In The Morning

I warned everyone: no suggestions means I might go rogue. And here we are — though honestly, this isn’t even weird by my standards. I stumbled across this locally released 70s album, complete with an autograph, which feels like finding buried treasure if the treasure also smells faintly of attic insulation. It’s packed with some surprisingly cool cover versions, and I pulled out two: a John Sebastian tune and Roger Whittaker’s New World in the Morning.

Now, confession time — the kind whispered behind a hand like you’re telling state secrets. Growing up, my parents liked Roger Whittaker. And I’ll admit it: New World in the Morning hits me right in the nostalgia. It’s one of those songs that sneaks up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and suddenly you’re eight years old again, sitting in a living room where the furniture was somehow both brown and orange. John’s version on this album? I really like it. It’s got that warm, lived‑in feel, like someone singing from the porch at sunrise.

Meanwhile, today is shaping up to be a three‑ring circus. The washing machine repairman is supposed to show up — Monday was a bust because his truck broke down, which feels metaphorically on‑brand for my life lately. I’ve also got a guy coming to look at the roof, because apparently the house has decided it wants attention too. And then there’s Princess… she’s acting odd, and I need to call the vet. Please send her all the good thoughts, prayers, cosmic vibrations, whatever you’ve got. We cannot take another loss. Not now. Not again.

Some days the music is the only thing that feels steady. Today might be one of those days.

 

Split Enz- Six Months In A Leaky Boat

An extremely true story, unfortunately. So, Friday night, I’m just minding my business, vibing, probably thinking about 45s or soul records, starting to wash dishes when suddenly it feels like the kitchen sink is acting like it’s on strike. Water pressure? Barely a suggestion. My brain immediately sprints to the worst‑case scenario like its training for the Plumbing Olympics.

Then Saturday morning, the shower joins the rebellion. The water pressure is low, and my mind goes, “Ah yes… the darkness. My old friend. Could it be the Leaky Boat Era returns.”

But no. No, dude. The universe had something far sillier planned.  I stroll into the backyard, ready to grab something from the shed, and instead I discover: THE GREAT INLAND SEA OF NORTH CAROLINA. My backyard has become a fully operational lake. Ducks could move in. Fishermen could apply for permits. Zillow might list it as “waterfront property.”

And I’m standing there like: “Okay… it rained last night… but it didn’t Noah’s Ark rain.” Then I see it. The hose. On. Still. Since Thursday. My wife watered her plants, didn’t turn off the hose and accidentally created a new ecosystem. A biome. A freshwater habitat. A national park. A place where Cooper can finally pursue his dream of becoming a swamp explorer.

Being the supportive husband that I am, I decide to lighten the mood by naming the lake after her — a bold choice, a brave choice, a choice that was met with the exact level of enthusiasm one would expect: none.

And now I await next month’s water bill like it’s a horror movie villain slowly approaching from behind. But hey — at least it wasn’t a real leak. At least, I’m not spending six months in a leaky boat when I want to go to the shed. At least the only thing sinking is my bank account.

The Rockin' Aces - Thunder / Evil

Yesterday was one of those days where I transformed into a one‑person domestic circus. I was straightening up like a caffeinated Generation X ( and I don't mean the Billy Idol kind), recording songs like I was auditioning for a gospel revival, updating the record database with the seriousness of a librarian who’s seen some things, and then hauling Cooper to Tractor Supply for his scrub a dub dub day and even my wifie helped with that endeavor. He strutted out of there like he owned stock in the company.

And now—boom—Monday. Back to work. Back to pretending I’m a functioning adult. And if the appliance vibrations of the earth decide to align, maybe the washing machine will finally be repaired. If not, I foresee myself stomping into the laundromat at dawn like a mythological creature fueled entirely by rage and washing machine pods. That evil machine has been testing my spirit.

I overslept, which I’m choosing to interpret as “my body needed it” instead of “I’m falling apart like a thrift‑store recliner.” Cooper didn’t get his walk, so he gave me that look dogs give when they’re disappointed but also plotting to knock something off a table later.

Then came the shower. I tried to be present, letting the hot water hit me like a tiny spa moment, when suddenly my brain screamed, “WHERE IS THE WASHING MACHINE RECEIPT?!” Full thunder panic. The kind where your soul briefly leaves your body to check the junk drawer. Miraculously, I found it in two minutes. Two. Minutes. I should get a medal or at least a parade with one float.

And yes, I absolutely saw my own cleverness using song titles in the post. I basically winked at myself. I must think I’m adorable or something.

El Dorados - Tears On My Pillow/A Rose For My Darling

I could’ve used a gospel 45 this morning — really could’ve strutted in with some sanctified reverb — but nope. Not a single one ready. My gospel bench is emptier than the McDonald’s promise of “order ahead for convenience,” which, by the way, they spectacularly failed at yesterday. I tried to get a sandwich with the app, they couldn’t get it right, and I took that as the universe tapping me on the shoulder saying, “Hey… buddy… you don’t need a sodium‑brick disguised as breakfast.”

So I drove off, slightly hungry, slightly smug, and went to pick up Tazzie’s urn from the vet — which was its own emotional weather system — and then, because my life is a collage, I hit an estate sale. Naturally, I met someone who wants to call me about her records. Because of course I did. I can’t go anywhere without accidentally networking like a man who smells faintly of 45 RPM destiny.

Then I got home, looked around, realized I had zero gospel ready, and immediately judged myself. I should’ve recorded at least one. I used to be so good — had ideas lined up a month at a time like a responsible adult who knows what he’s doing. Now I’m winging it like a possum who found a flashlight.

Busy day today, but maybe I can squeeze in a few recordings. Wednesday’s wide open, so maybe I’ll actually get my act together then. Maybe.

And as always — I’ll throw this out there again — any requests? Now’s the moment to speak up and say, “Hey how about some more Herman’s Hermits,” or “Hit me with some Dave Clark Five,” or “Do you have (insert obscure group here that only three people on Earth remember)?”

Otherwise it’s up to me… and you know what happens when it’s up to me. I might go down some weird direction that makes you pull out your hair and run screaming into the night like you just witnessed the Exorcist.

So what do you do on a Sunday morning with no gospel 45s ready? Easy — doo‑wop R&B and a Vee Jay promo. I always pick up obscure Vee Jay stuff, and finding a promo feels like winning a tiny lottery only record nerds understand. Someday maybe I’ll luck into a Beatles Vee Jay promo to go with my two Capitol “real” Beatles promos. A man can dream. And I do. Loudly.

The Stillroven – Little Picture Playhouse/Cast The Burden Upon The Stone

I woke up feeling like my body spent the night doing community theater instead of sleeping — lots of dramatic tossing, zero actual rest. Cooper and I took a short walk because the sky is apparently planning a water‑based assault, and then I took one of those unsatisfying showers where the water hits you like, “I’m doing my best,” and you’re like, “No you’re not.”

Now I’m sitting here, slowly sipping coffee like it’s a fragile emotional support beverage, staring at the day and wondering what heroic nonsense I’m going to accomplish. Eventually I realized I should probably just close my eyes, breathe deeply, and thank God for the day — because the week was long, the work was real, and somehow I still made it through without spontaneously combusting.

And then… ah yes… Saturday record hunting, the sacred ritual. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve done the full‑tilt vinyl safari instead of the “do laundry, hit two yard sales, call it a day” version. As much as I would love to, it won't happen today. But the mail did bring offerings — offerings packaged by people who apparently think records are made of flexible hopes and dreams instead of fragile cardboard and grooves.

One seller packed 12" singles in a box too small for physics, diagonally, like he was trying to smuggle them across the border in a geometry puzzle. Naturally the box arrived crushed, corners bent, and my soul briefly left my body. He’s sending a partial refund, but he has absolutely lost a customer. If that’s how he treats the vinyls — (ha ha, I tossed that in purely to antagonize the record‑collecting purists, and have a least one of you start vibrating like a tuning fork possessed by a mischievous ghost by my casually calling them the vinyls, as if I’ve committed a war crime against analog media)

But hey, small victories: the records weren’t completely obliterated, and that’s worth celebrating. So let’s enjoy a garage rarity by the Stillroven — or as Word autocorrect tried to rename them, Still Oven, which honestly sounds like a band that only plays songs about casseroles and emotional burnout.

This one came courtesy of my friend Jesse, who I really should text soon because we haven’t chatted much lately. And nothing says “I’m thinking of you” like sending someone a link to a band called Still Oven.

Soul Experience – I'm So Glad I Found You / Who's Lips You Been Kissing

Friday Soul ends with a banger, and honestly, I’m still riding the high from the day I accidentally stumbled into owning a pricey 45 like some kind of clueless vinyl raccoon who lucked into a bag of gold-plated Doritos.

So picture me at this special record auction in Burlington, NC — the kind of place where the air smells like dust, old cardboard, and quite frankly vinyl geeks like me. I’m chatting with this guy I know in Greensboro. We’re not “talk every week” friends, but we’re “nod knowingly at each other over stacks of obscure soul 45s” friends, which honestly feels more intimate.

There are, I kid you not, 5–10 thousand 45s piled everywhere. Some on tables, most boxed, all whispering buy me,… buy meee. We’re digging through them, finding weird gems, oddballs, and stuff that probably hasn’t seen daylight since Nixon was in office.

Enter the auctioneer — a man so crooked he could stand in a doorway and still block the whole thing. He’s making back‑door deals left and right, including one with my friend, who gets to pick out 8–10 boxes for a set price. I’m watching this like, “Ah yes, crime. But make it vinyl.”

The auctioneer is unloading everything in massive, chaotic lots — but the individual records were “curated” by a guy who supposedly knows this stuff, when in reality he was about as clueless as a Discogs bot trying to grade a G+ copy in the dark. When the boxed 45s finally hit the auction block in one big lot, I end up bidding against my friend. It gets hot. It gets heavy. I get swept up in the frenzy like a seagull chasing a french fry. Eventually I tap out, thank the vinyl gods, because I absolutely did not need to win that mess, not to mention trying to explain to my wife how much I spent.

Afterward, my friend tells me, “Man, I hope there’s a Soul Experience 45 on Smoke in those boxes.” I’m like, “Cool, cool, I have no idea what that means.” He explains there’s one super expensive one on Smoke, one not-so-expensive one, and he’d recently found a cheaper Smoke 45. My brain — which is basically a colander with aspirations — only retained the label Smoke.

Cut to a month later: a guy I know messages me saying he bought a mess of 45s and asks if I want to dig through them. Of course I do. This is my version of peaceful meditation.

I’m flipping through boxes, vibing, and suddenly — there it is. Soul Experience. Smoke label. My swiss-cheese memory lights up like a cheap neon sign: “HEY, YOU KNOW THIS ONE.” But really, I didn't.

Into the “yes, I’m buying this” pile it goes.

I get home, play it, fall in love, and then look it up.

Holy smokes. I got the good one.

Not the “oh neat” one. The expensive one. The “you only find this once every few years if the universe is feeling generous” one.

These kinds of finds are not normal. They’re cosmic accidents. They’re little miracles wrapped in cardboard sleeves. And this South Carolina band — bless them — dropped a one-off 45 so good it deserves every bit of hype it gets.

Jeri Jorden with The Billy Roland Band - Baby (Goes A Walkin' On The Moon) / Alone & Wishing

You know me — king of the girl‑sound 45s, emperor of the Thursday rotation, the guy who flips a record like it’s a sacred ritual handed down by ancient garage‑rock monks. I swear, if someone ever charted my listening habits, it’d look like a weather report: “And on Thursdays, expect a 90% chance of girl‑group harmonies with scattered handclaps.”

There’s not a lot out there about Jeri Jorden, which of course makes me like her even more. The A‑side hits me with this rockin’, soulful thing — and I’m sitting there trying to figure out if that’s an oboe sneaking around behind the drums. Like… who approved that? Who said, “Yes, let’s add a woodwind to this banger”? And then at the end, there’s that sweet little guitar line in the background, just vibing like it’s late to the session but still wants credit.

Then I flip it — because of course I flip it — and the B‑side suddenly decides it wants to be a Latin dance number. Or tango. Or maybe it’s neither and my ears are just full of wax from decades of listening to 45s that were stored in boxes labeled “misc.” But whatever it is, it makes me want to go walkin’ on the Moon, preferably in slow motion, holding a portable turntable like some kind of cosmic DJ.

And yes — I finally bumped the font up on the blog. I got tired of squinting at my own words like I was trying to decode ancient cave markings. I swear, getting old is HELL. Absolute, full‑capital‑letters HELL. My eyes have officially entered their “nope, we don’t do 8‑point type anymore” era, and honestly, I respect their boundaries.

Larry Trider - Carbon Copy/House Of The Blues

This has been described as popcorn soul, which immediately made me picture a committee of very serious Belgian citizens sitting in a circle, earnestly debating what soul music is while passing around a bowl of Jiffy Pop. I mean… bless them. They tried.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit I have absolutely no clue how to define popcorn soul. None. Zero. If you asked me to explain it, I’d probably just start sweating and point at a saxophone. But if Larry Tridder and Carbon Copy are ambassadors of this mysterious subgenre, then fine — I can groove with that. I don’t need to understand it to enjoy it. Half my record collection is built on that principle.

Larry himself passed in 2020 at the age of 80, and while he never cracked the charts (at least according to my extremely scientific method of “Googling until I get distracted”), the man had a busy career. He knocked boots with Buddy Holly and the Crickets, recorded in the Norman Petty studios, and generally lived the kind of musical life that makes you go, “Dang, okay, sir!”

It’s a nice reminder that a good career doesn’t have to be Beatles‑level or come with screaming fans and airport chaos. Sometimes it’s just decades of steady work, cool collaborations, and leaving behind a few 45s weirdos like me get excited about while drinking morning coffee.

Carl Perkins - Pink Pedal Pushers/Jive After Five

Don’t you just love kickin’ Rockabilly — that hip‑shakin’, hair‑greasin’, “my car only has two gears and both of them are trouble” kind of music? But here’s the cosmic joke: Carl Perkins kept scoring bigger hits on the Country charts than the Rock charts. The man invented the sound that makes teenagers climb out windows, and Billboard said, “Yes, but have you considered… tractors?”

Take Pink Pedal Pushers — #91 on the Pop charts, #17 on the Country charts. That’s not just a chart discrepancy; that’s a full‑blown identity crisis. Rockabilly Carl was out here setting his guitar on fire, and Country Carl was politely holding the door for folks at the Grand Ole Opry.

And then Columbia said, “We’re gonna fix this,” and unleashed this rare-as-hens-teeth promo picture sleeve — the kind of fold‑out artifact that makes collectors faint, speak in tongues, and briefly consider taking out insurance policies on their record shelves. It’s magnificent. It’s absurd. It’s the sort of thing you hold in your hands and feel your soul do a little somersault.

This is why I collect records: Because sometimes I get to cradle a picture sleeve that punches me lovingly in the belly and whispers, “Hey buddy… you’re doing life right.”

And Carl’s Sun 45s? Don’t get me started. Those are my love letters — my musical valentines — my “I care deeply, but in a cool, leather‑jacket way.” Posting them on my blog is basically me standing on a rooftop yelling, “I HAVE FEELINGS AND THEY ARE ALL 45 RPM.”

I'm just caring like that. A tenderhearted Rockabilly menace.

I have a stock copy with the stock picture sleeve — I know I do — but it’s currently living somewhere deep in the archaeological dig site I call my record room. It’s buried in those uncomped record boxes, the ones stacked like a Jenga tower built by a drunk raccoon. And am I going to go find it? Absolutely not. I’m far too lazy, spiritually unprepared, and emotionally fragile for that kind of expedition. Every time I think, “I should go look for that sleeve,” my brain immediately responds, “Or… hear me out… you could sit down and listen to Carl Perkins instead.” And honestly, that’s the kind of self‑care I believe in. Somewhere in those boxes — probably next to a stray Love 45, and at least one record I swear I’ve never seen before — that stock sleeve is just vibing, waiting for me to rediscover it like a chaotic vinyl Indiana Jones moment. But until then, it remains a mythic creature, a cardboard Bigfoot, a legendary artifact I’m too lazy to retrieve. And that’s fine. Because I know it’s there. And knowing is enough. (Also: bending over to dig through boxes is a young man’s game.)

The Motions - Beatle Drums/Long-Hair

So the label geniuses sit around a table and go:

“Beatlemania is huge. People love drums. Let’s name the song… Beatle Drums. We’re basically guaranteed a hit.”

And the universe said: “Incorrect.”

Because nothing screams chart failure quite like trying to ride a cultural wave that already left the station, crossed three state lines, and is now living quietly under an assumed name. You’ve gotta admit, it’s a pretty slick surf‑y little burner — the kind of track that caught just enough regional buzz to make three counties feel special, but not enough to escape the gravitational pull of its hometown bowling alley. That’s peak sixties local‑band physics: make a cool song, impress the neighborhood, fail to conquer America, return to algebra class or the night shift.

It’s the same energy we also hear on the B side “Long Hair"… YEAH!” — the records that tried to cash in on the youth movement by sounding like someone’s little sister yelling at a jukebox.

Which brings us to my long hair era, a period historians will one day refer to as:

“His brief but glorious attempt at looking like a long haired hipster.”

My wife — not my wife yet, but already fully operating in executive decision mode — flew in from Florida to visit me in Colorado in the early 90's. She stepped off the plane, took one look at my glorious mane, and delivered her verdict with the confidence of someone who had already made up her mind somewhere over Kansas:

“That’s got to go.”

No debate. No gentle suggestion. Just immediate scissors‑energy.

And me? brave, romantic, slightly doomed — said: “Okay.” No hesitation. No negotiation. I folded faster than a promo 45 in a bargain bin. Because love makes you do wild things: cut your hair, move states, buy records you absolutely don’t need, and pretend “Beatle Drums” was ever going to chart.

And just to add to the confusion of life, I’m dealing with Motions (3) — yes, that Motions — the one off the cogs of Dis. And of course I have to remind myself not to mix them up with Motions (1), Motions (2), Motions (4), or Motions (5), because apparently there was a full‑on battle royale to be named The Motions.

I swear, at some point in the ’60s, five different groups must’ve walked into five different studios, all said “We’re The Motions,” and the engineers just shrugged and wrote numbers next to them like they were ordering combo meals.

It’s the kind of Discogs rabbit hole where I start questioning my own sanity — flipping a 45 over, squinting at the label, thinking, “Okay… which Motions are YOU?”

Honestly, it’s a miracle any of us survive record collecting with our minds intact.

The Scott Sisters - I'll Trade a Lifetime/As Long As I Got Jesus

I present another Scott Sisters 45 and find myself wondering: What do I write this week?

Last week I posted the second of the three 45s the Scott Sisters released, and, as is often the case with these little musical time capsules, there wasn’t much information to go on. Today, I present their first release—and quite possibly their most sought-after 45. Three records. Three years. Then…nothing.

And that, of course, is where the mystery begins. Looking at the songwriting credits on the labels, I suspect the sisters themselves may have written these songs. If so, that makes these records even more intriguing to me. There is something deeply personal in music when the people singing it are also the ones doing the thinking, writing, and creating. Their music carries that combination of creativity, introspection, and gospel infusion that makes you wonder what else was happening in their lives beyond these few precious minutes captured on vinyl.

And then they disappear from the record trail. I hope they simply went on creating in other ways. Perhaps they remained active in their congregation, raised families, served their communities, and lived long, happy, well-spent lives— the kind that never makes headlines but leaves fingerprints on hearts. Maybe the music stopped, but the service didn’t. There’s something humbling about that thought.

We collectors spend a lot of time chasing records, trying to uncover who made them, where they went, and why they vanished. But occasionally the mystery reminds me that the record may not have been the most important thing they left behind. Maybe it was the life they lived after the music. And I’ll admit: thinking about them makes me reflect on my own life. Records are wonderful things to collect—but lives are meant to be lived, and hopefully, to be of some service to others.  I pray I can be of more service to others.

So here’s to the Scott Sisters: three 45s, a little mystery, some beautiful music, and a reminder that sometimes the story beyond the record is the one worth wondering about most — maybe the rest of their legacy was lived, not pressed.

San Diego Misfits -I Wanna Be Your Lover Man / Going Where The Girls Are

Yes, I’m late posting today — but listen, I’ve already lived an entire mini‑lifetime before 10 a.m. First stop: the laundromat, because our washing machine has been broken for two weeks and Electrolux sat on their fat behinds and decided it will not be examined until the 24th. Thank you, Electrolux, you magnificent bastages. Truly the Picasso of inconvenient scheduling.

Then I hit some yard sales, because I woke up with that delusional collector confidence — the “today’s the day I find a $500 Northern Soul banger for a quarter” energy. Can you say NOT. I found exactly zero treasures and one ceramic clown that looked like it wanted to steal my soul.

So, in honor of my lateness and my complete lack of yard‑sale glory, I’m giving you boys and girls something special — maybe even the only surviving copy in the world. You might think I’m exaggerating, but honestly? I might not be. Stranger things have happened. (Like those psych and soul 45s, including this one, magically teleporting to Clayton, NC — still unsolved, still weird.)

Let me back up. I bought this mystery disc a few years ago in a massive haul of 8,000 45s. Most of it was your standard “why did anyone press this?” material — the kind of stuff that makes you question both humanity and the concept of vinyl as a medium — but tucked inside were several boxes of absolute killer extremely rare West Coast psych and soul. And because it was an all‑or‑nothing deal, I had to pull the plug and take the whole mountain home. Ouch, indeed. My wallet still wakes up screaming and my wife reminds me as well.  And in the middle of that psychedelic treasure chest sat this thing — a test pressing so obscure it practically hisses, “You’re not supposed to have me.”

Naturally, I had to sleuth. I started with the Troy label, where the Cogs of Dis lists an 8-inch acetate of the A side track — except the B‑side was the same song without the audience screams. My copy doesn’t list a B‑side title, but it’s obviously a different cut — the lyrics keep shouting “Going Where The Girls Are,” and when I asked Shazam for help, it basically told me to take a hike. Full digital shrug. So I’m rolling with that. If the universe wants to correct me, it can send a surviving Misfit to my doorstep with a label copy and a handwritten apology.

Here’s the kicker: This appears to be an unreleased test pressing by the San Diego Misfits, featuring Bob Mosley, who later joined Moby Grape. Possibly the only surviving test pressing of this on Troy. Possibly the only copy, period. Possibly something that should’ve come out but didn’t, which is a crime against garage‑psych humanity.

If any surviving San Diego Misfits members are out there, please explain yourselves. We deserve answers. And maybe a reissue. Honestly, you can always purchase it from me and reissue it properly — hint hint, Get Hip, The Numero Group, Light In The Attic — just make sure you give me credit for finding the damn thing in the first place. I’m the one who rescued it from an 8,000‑record avalanche and gave it a second chance at daylight. The least you can do is slap my name somewhere in the liner notes, preferably in a font size visible from space.

hhh

Johnny Honeycutt - I'm Coming Over/If You Love Me

I’m glad it’s Friday — the kind of glad where you walk into the day like you’ve got theme music playing behind you. This week has been the kind of awful where even your coffee looks at you like, “Damn, man… again?”  I keep trying to find the perfect week for a vacation, but that’s a fairy tale. My schedule isn’t going to magically behave; it’s a wild animal that knocks over furniture and chews electrical cords. So I’m done negotiating. I’m picking a week, claiming it like stolen treasure, and letting the chaos sort itself out.

But until that escape hatch opens? I'm ending this week with a monster rare one — the kind of record that doesn’t just hide, it taunts. A 45 so scarce it probably travels under an alias, has a criminal record and travels with security. The sort of slab that slides out of its sleeve like, “You survived this week? Prove it.”  Perfect for closing out a week that tried to take me down hard, swung with everything it had, and still watched me walk away with full resilience and a record that practically growls.

The Righteous Brothers - This Little Girl Of Mine/If You're Lying You'll Be Crying

I woke up today needing a raver. I woke up and realized the whole damn house is grieving in its own weird choreography. Princess Rian has turned the window sill into her private shrine, staring out like she’s waiting for a sign from the universe or maybe just a bird dumb enough to land close. KC is sitting in a hallway chair he never sits in — which feels like the feline equivalent of wearing black to a funeral. Lilli is glued to the Princess like emotional Velcro. Meep Meep is still bouncing around, but even she’s got that distant, “I’m pretending everything’s normal but it’s not” vibe.

And me? I’m pacing around like a raver who lost the beat. I need the lights, the pulse, the sweat, the release — something to shake the grief loose before it calcifies.

They all look at me with those big, impossible eyes, like they’re asking, Why? And I don’t have a good answer. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m being human. Maybe I’m just tired of the universe handing me loss like it’s dealing cards in a rigged game.

Eight years since my dad. Then my mother‑in‑law. Then Bentley — sweet Bentley, whose picture used to sit right here on this blog like a little guardian.Then five cats. Five. And now Tazzie.

People say grief comes in waves. Mine feels like it’s been high tide for eight years.

I don’t think Tazzie is unlocking old grief — I’ve done that work, sat with each loss, let it hurt, let it heal. This one is different. This one is braided into everything else — the house repairs that keep multiplying like gremlins, the job that pulls me in every direction except the one where I can breathe, the world that feels like it’s spinning off its axis, the financial chaos that makes retirement look like a mirage I can see but not touch.

And here I am, writing for relief, and somehow depressing myself further. Classic me. But I laugh anyway — because if I don’t, I’ll sink.

I think about my Pop all the time. I’ll be doing something mundane — fixing something, walking Cooper, sorting records — and he’ll just show up in my head like he’s checking in. And my mother‑in‑law, who absolutely did not always like me, but still managed to deliver one of the funniest lines of her life when she asked when we were coming to see her and it was 6 months in to the Covid crisis and I said we couldn't travel because of Covid and she said: “Oh that is just a bullshit excuse.” I swear she said it with Olympic‑level conviction.

My wife says our pets will see us in Heaven. I believe, and I like the idea of getting smothered by all those dog and cat kisses. Bentley, Charlie Brown, Sara and Roxy barreling toward me. Tazzie curling up in my lap again. Julian doing whatever mischievous thing he’d do. A reunion of all the souls who made this house feel alive.

And maybe that’s the raver I need today — not the neon lights, but the reminder that love doesn’t vanish. It just changes rooms.