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.
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