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.
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