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.