The Challengers - Pipeline/Asphalt Spinner

Impromptu cover week has officially begun — and by “impromptu,” I mean “half planned, half accidentally tripped into it like a man who thought he was walking into the kitchen but somehow ended up in the garage.” I knew I had plenty ready, but I didn’t realize I had plenty ready until after the gospel upload, so technically you’re only getting six days. Consider it a spiritual discount.

I feel like I’m drowning in 45s, and Sunday found me sitting in the middle of a vinyl hurricane, boxes of 45s stacked around me like I was reenacting the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of priceless artifacts it was “stuff I swear I’ll organize someday.” I listened to a bunch I’d never spun before, giving each the classic 10 second preview — the musical equivalent of sniffing leftovers to see if they’re still good. If it passed the sniff test, I listened more. If it slapped, I recorded it. Honestly, not a bad Sunday for a man buried alive in cardboard.

And then there’s this Challengers cover — hanging around like a bad penny, if pennies still existed and weren’t just cryptids we tell children about. It’s a blazin’ take on Pipeline, big production, big energy, big “I dare you not to grin like an idiot.” I can’t think of a better way to start a Monday unless someone invents a coffee that also pays your bills.

The Caravans- I Find No Fault In GOD/Work Until The Day Is Done

Perspective is a marvelous thing. It reminds us that the tiny irritations nibbling at our ankles are, in the grand cosmic ledger, barely footnotes and basically cosmic lint. You can carry them around like a grudge filled backpack, or you can shrug, breathe, and move on like a reasonably evolved human. Forgiveness is key, even when it feels like trying to hug a porcupine.

Why am I writing all this? Because I had to talk myself into praying for guidance and forgiveness over something so trivial it barely qualifies as a problem: returning my allegedly “self propelling” lawn mower to the shop that recently worked on it. Yesterday, while I was mowing with all the dignity of a suburban monarch, the back wheel with all its intricate mechanisms decided to detach itself and pursue a solo career. It had had enough of this earthly plane and simply fell off. Just… plop. Freedom achieved.

Naturally, the shop had failed to reassemble it properly. So, I drove it back to the shop and watched them attempt the ancient art of performing interpretive excuses — a delicate dance in which they tried to explain why it wasn’t their fault — gravity, vibes, the alignment of Jupiter, who knows. Eventually, reason prevailed when they finally realized the wheel was, in fact, a crucial part of the self propelling mechanism they had worked on. Their grand concession? They wouldn’t charge me to repair it (again). I maintained my composure with the serene poise of a man who has decided, for once, not to unleash his inner operatic diva. I consider that a personal triumph.

I suppose this is where music makes its entrance — gliding in like a well‑dressed accomplice, giving me every excuse to abandon the day’s nonsense and slide, effortlessly, into something resembling peace. In the land of music: I haven’t listened to much Shirley Caesar, even though her records seem to multiply in every crate I flip through. And I’ll admit, I had no idea she was in the Caravans. But this little single? A delight. The sleeve doesn’t match the 45, but the pairing looks fantastic and it feels intentional like two stylish strangers who met at a bus stop and immediately began harmonizing. 

“I Find No Fault in God” came belting out of the speakers yesterday while I was recording it, and I thanked God for forgiving all my pettiness — including my temporary, mower related descent into melodrama.

The Standells - Dirty Water/Rari

I had a whole different plan for today — a bold, visionary direction, the kind of thing that would make curators weep and archivists applaud — but once again my photo folders staged a full‑scale rebellion. They’ve barricaded themselves somewhere deep in the digital catacombs and left a note saying, “Organize us this weekend or perish.” 

So instead, I bring you a stone cold classic — yes, the one we all hear constantly, the one that’s practically required by law to appear on any garage rock playlist. But I must confess something that may get me banished from the Record Collector’s Guild: I’ve owned this 45 for over half my life, and June was probably the first time I ever played the B side.

I know. I know. You’re already muttering, “Doesn’t he always say flip the beast over?” Guilty, your honor and I throw myself on the mercy of the court. Please don't send me to the gallows or sentence me to 50 lashes. And for the record, there will be no "Please sir, may I have another?" coming from these lips.

But back to the wax: Dirty Water is a classic, sure — it’s earned its accolades, its airplay, and its permanent residency in the collective garage rock brain. But holy moly, Rari is a full blown scorcher. Honestly, it might be the real star of this 45. I always root for the underdog, and Rari grabs you right from the intro: killer guitar, organ that sounds like it’s possessed by a friendly demon, pounding drums, and then former Mouseketeer Dick Dodd hollers, “RARI, they told me not to fall for an island girl.” Fantastic.

Of course, my overactive brain immediately wonders why DJs didn’t flip this baby over too — but once you hold that white label promo in your grubby little hands, you realize Dirty Water is on both sides. Tower Records said, “No risks. No surprises. No underdogs.” They were taking zero chances with this one. They weren't about to let an ambitious DJ accidentally discover another great song when they had a hit to shove down everyone's throat. Can you blame them? Probably not. Do I still think Rari deserves more love? Absolutely.

Mac And Barb and The Gamuts - What's Your Business Round Here/Hold Me Tighter

Friday is basically my personal Independence Day this week — I took it off, which magically transforms the weekend into a glorious three‑day escape. And honestly, I need it. My back has been staging a full‑scale rebellion. I had an appointment Monday, and the doctor delivered the kind of news you only hear in Blue Ridge Parkway folklore: my spine apparently looks like a winding mountain road. Not the scenic kind with overlooks and picnic tables — the kind where GPS gives up and says, “You’re on your own, buddy.” Apparently, straight lines are overrated but the good news is I'm officially on the road to getting it taken care of—pun fully intended.

Today’s distraction: another North Carolina killer soul 45 on the Pyramid label. Both sides are fantastic, — but I swear they put the A‑side in a key that required Barb to rent a ladder. She’s reaching notes that only migrating geese can hear. But who am I to complain?   I couldn't sing in key if my life depended on it. If someone threatened me with bodily harm and demanded I hit the right note, I'd probably just apologize and start writing my will.

But those pink Pyramid label 45s — those are the ones that make the heart do that tiny cartoon boing sound. You spot that shade of pink peeking out in a crate and suddenly you’re a prospector in the Gold Rush, except instead of a pickaxe you’re armed with caffeine, hope, and a highly trained record sniffing instinct.

It’s always the same ritual: You flip past a few battered country promos, a stack of battered yacht rock 45s that survived three hurricanes, a polka record that has seen things… and then — there it is. That pink. That label. That moment where your pulse politely accelerates like, “Sir, we may have a situation.”

Some of those Pyramid 45s really are worth their weight in gold, and even the ones that aren’t still feel like you’ve uncovered a secret handshake from North Carolina history. They’re little artifacts of regional magic — the kind of records that make crate digging feel like treasure hunting instead of “I’m crouched on a concrete floor wondering why my knees (and spine) hate me.”

Enjoy the tune—and unlike my spine, hopefully it stays in alignment 

Darlene And Darla - In Your Imagination/Eternal Love

A romantic Thursday deserves a little swoon, a little shimmer, a little needle‑drop magic from the girl‑group dreamworld I step into- an elegant, mischievous, atmospheric glow if you like — the kind that feels like a slow‑motion turn of a jukebox dial.

I brought home another 45 from the flea market — one more gamble in that glorious stack of 250 little mysteries. Many such as this are mysteries from the past, each one dare a listen. And when I hit on a good one, it’s not just luck. It’s vindication. A tiny triumph. A private celebration only the collector understands.

Yesterday it was Chris Bailey murmuring Love or Imagination, and today Darlene and Darla drift in like twin sirens, offering In Your Imagination — early‑’60s romance in its purest form. That era didn’t flirt; it floated. It didn’t confess; it sighed. Love wasn’t a plotline, it was a dream state, a soft-focus world where harmonies curled around you like perfume.

Back then, the imagination did the heavy lifting. Back then, the heart got to invent its own scenery. Back then, the music left space — delicious space — for longing. Today’s music and TV spell everything out, leaving nothing to mystery, nothing to wonder. But this little 45 — the one I took a chance on — brings back the lost art of romantic suggestion, the kind that lets you fill in the shadows yourself.

It’s a Thursday built for that kind of romance: the kind that hums, the kind that glows, the kind that feels like a secret whispered through a transistor radio.

The Saints- Temple Of The Lord/Love Or Imagination

I was super surprised when I picked this up — a U.S. promo Saints 45 that somehow isn’t on Sire. It’s the kind of anomaly that makes collectors tilt their heads like confused owls. You start wondering if some rogue A&R guy in 1986 just said, “Eh, let’s press a few and see what happens,” then wandered off to lose his job at TVT.

Apparently the video even got MTV rotation, though I have zero memory of that. To be fair, I wasn’t watching much MTV at the time because I was buried under textbooks, caffeine, ramen, and  existential dread that pairs beautifully with late‑70s Australian punk with the kind of sleep schedule that makes raccoons look responsible. 

I used to see Saints LPs on TVT for cheap — the kind of cheap where you assume the shrink‑wrap is hiding a fatal flaw, like warped vinyl living inside the jacket. But I never bought one until I found a radio‑station copy in Colorado Springs two years ago. Beautiful condition… except for the station’s call letters scrawled across the cover in marker so large it could be seen from orbit. Classic radio‑station behavior: “We love this record so much we’re going to vandalize it.” Nothing says “collectible” like graffiti from a bored DJ.

The Saints even toured last year with Mark Arm from Mudhoney stepping in for Chris Bailey, who we lost four years ago. I’ve watched clips of this version of the band, and while Mark is great, replacing Chris Bailey is like trying to replace the sun with a really bright desk lamp. And honestly, Mark couldn’t be replaced in Mudhoney either — some front men just come factory‑installed. and are so baked into the DNA of their bands that swapping them out would cause a minor tear in the fabric of punk reality.

The Doors- Roadhouse Blues / You Make Me Real

Somehow, in the long, proud, and occasionally chaotic history of this blog, I managed to skip over one of the greatest bands of all time—The Doors. Yes, really. It’s like writing a food blog and forgetting pizza exists. How did I miss Jim and the boys? Was I distracted? Was I temporarily replaced by a pod person? We may never know.

Blame my grandfather for my love of the Doors—in the best possible way. During one of our legendary flea market expeditions (where you go in looking for treasure and leave with…mystery cords and a lamp shaped like a fish), he handed me a Doors album. That was it. No dramatic speech, no warning label—just “Here, try this.” I never looked back. I also never trusted flea markets the same way again—they change you.

Now, let’s address the elephant in the room: there are two types of people—Doors lovers (me) and Doors haters. There is no neutral ground. You don’t just casually listen to The Doors. You either vibe with Jim Morrison’s poetic chaos or you’re sitting there wondering if he’s about to summon something and you wish he would just STOP.

For me, “Roadhouse Blues”—technically the B-side—was always the main event. And it contains one of the greatest lyrics ever written: “I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer.”

Now, do I have a philosophical explanation for why that line is genius? Absolutely not. Does it align with my personal beliefs? Not even close. Do I recommend that lifestyle? Definitely not. In fact, (my public service announcement for this week) if that’s your morning routine, please reach out to someone for help—maybe not Jim Morrison.

But still…there’s something about that line. It’s brutally honest. It’s simple. It’s…alarmingly efficient storytelling. Of course, it also hints at the reality of Jim’s life, which wasn’t exactly a wellness retreat. It’s kind of wild to imagine what would’ve happened if The Doors had lasted as long as The Rolling Stones. Then again, knowing their history, that idea feels about as realistic as Jim Morrison hosting a morning talk show.

And honestly, if he had stuck around that long, you have to wonder if John, Robbie, and Ray could’ve kept him in line…or if they’d have collectively lost their minds and started a support group. I watched an interview Billy Corgan did with Robbie Krieger, and at one point Billy starts talking about No One Gets Out of Here Alive — you know, the Doors book that basically turned every teenager into a temporary mystic. He says it opened his eyes to the authors Jim Morrison devoured, and I had to laugh because it did the same thing to me. One minute I’m reading about the Doors, and the next I’m knee‑deep in Kerouac and Huxley, like I tripped into a literary swamp where every author is yelling “Expand your mind!” while I’m just trying to find my shoes. And somehow that wild writing grabbed me by the collar and said, “We’re doing this forever now,” and honestly, I haven’t looked back since.

But back to the music—because that’s what keeps pulling me in. There’s just something magical about those 1960s Elektra white label promos. They don’t just play music—they practically dare you to go digging for more. And I’m only missing a few Doors promo 45 pieces now, which means one thing:

Time to dive back into the crates…because apparently my self-control is still out on tour.

The Nu-Trons -Wild Side / Tension

What a brutally hot weekend we had. I was planning to use my weed eater to get rid of the weeds growing through my brick patio, but the heat was so intense I was afraid I'd melt faster than the Wicked Witch of the West. The weeds looked at me, looked at the thermometer, and basically said, "We'll see you in October."

The Nu-Trons have a Wild Side, but I really don't. I used to be a lot wilder in my younger days. Back then, "Hold my beer" sounded like the beginning of an adventure. Now it sounds like the beginning of a trip to the emergency room.

At some point, age teaches you that getting wild can be detrimental to your health and create unwanted Tension. (See what I did there?) These days my idea of living on the edge is mowing the lawn when the heat index is below 90 and eating ice cream before dinner.

Besides, the weeds aren't going anywhere. They're apparently tougher than I am and seem to be thriving in conditions normally reserved for baking pizzas.  Besides, heat stroke, is a lousy lawn care companion

The Sunset Travelers - Wonderful Jesus / Hide Me

I hope everyone stayed cool and safe on the 4th. While preparing this post, I discovered a post I was actually planning to share yesterday for Independence Day. Now I face a true crisis: do I post it in a few weeks and hope nobody notices, or do I put it in storage for an entire year like some sort of patriotic heirloom? Decisions, decisions.

Poor Cooper is not a fan of firecrackers, so I had to crate him for a while last night as the neighborhood enthusiastically reenacted several famous battles. Every boom seemed to confirm his suspicion that civilization was ending.

And I sure as hell did not stay up to watch the Washington, DC fireworks. At my age, choosing sleep over explosions isn't a sign of weakness—it's wisdom.

Time for Peacock Gospel Sunday. Sometimes it feels like I've accidentally joined a peacock congregation, and honestly, I'm quite satisfied with that. I was not able to find a lot of information on the Sunset Travelers, other than the fact that they seemed to have a revolving-door membership policy. If you stood still too long near the group, you may have ended up in it.

I did learn, much to my surprise, that soul singer O.V. Wright was a member at one time, which definitely caught me off guard. Every once in a while, these rabbit holes actually lead somewhere interesting. Unfortunately for those hoping to hear him, he was not on this particular release.

I managed to record a few 45's yesterday, including this one. And, in what may be the most shocking development of the weekend, I found the Jackie Wilson and Chi-Lites 45 quite quickly. Anyone who has ever watched me search for a record knows this borders on the supernatural. It's on the recording docket for today.

Terry & The Pyrats – Falling In Love

This has that wonderfully amateurish ‘60s garage sound that I love—the kind of recording that sounds like it was tracked in a one-car garage between lawnmower repairs. Is it the definitive example of the genre? Not even close. But I’m an archivist at heart. I collect the weird stuff, the lost stuff, the “why does this exist?” stuff. If it makes my ear perk up like a confused terrier, I’m saving it.

Was this comped? Honestly, I have no earthly idea. It might have been comped, or it might have simply materialized one night like a cursed object in a folklore story. But it’s now officially part of the Noize universe, and once something enters the Noize universe, it’s like being bitten by a radioactive spider—there’s no undoing it.

Now, the sharp‑eyed among you may notice this is Side 2, and that Side 1 is mysteriously absent. The explanation is simple: the A‑side was catastrophically, heroically bad. We’re talking the kind of bad that makes dogs howl, milk curdle, and grown adults stare into the middle distance reconsidering every decision that led them to this moment. A true audio crime scene. CSI: Turntable. That’s seriously sad considering the cosmic level of hope their name promised. I mean, with a name like that, I was fully prepared—no, spiritually primed—for a psychedelic flip‑out so intense it would rearrange my furniture, open a wormhole in the laundry room, and cause at least one neighbor to report “strange shimmering lights” to Homeland Security. Instead, the A‑side just sat there like a damp sponge, radiating disappointment and the faint smell of old carpet.

In fact, this 45 is the perfect lesson in why you should always flip a record over before deciding whether it belongs in the keeper box or the donation pile. Sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the back. And sometimes the front side is doing its absolute best to keep you from ever finding it.

Dick Jacobs His Orchestra and Friend - Dance Back To Me

Rolling into Soul Friday with Dick Jacobs and a mystery friend… and yeah, I know you’re squinting at the speaker like it owes you money trying to guess who it is.

“Do I recognize that voice?”
Of course you do.
…or maybe you don’t.
Hey, no judgment—this isn’t Name That Tune with a cash prize, it’s just me being dramatic.

Alright, fine, I’ll give you a hint: check the songwriter. Go on…look at it…stare at it like it’s gonna blink first…
Yep—Jackie Wilson.

There, I said it. Because honestly, by now the song has probably already ended and you’re still mid-guess like, “Wait—was that…?”

Now listen, I’m not out here waving a giant Jackie Wilson fan flag, but every now and then he drops a gem that makes me sit up like my chair just got electric. He’s on this one song with the Chi-Lites that I hear on the Underground Garage that absolutely wrecks me in the best way. I found a copy about a month ago buried in one of my “I’ll organize this later” boxes… which is basically code for “it has entered the witness protection program.”

So yeah, weekend plans: Track down that 45 like I’m working a cold case with zero leads.”

Argia Patrice - Bad For Each Other / Bless Our Love

It’s Thursday—which, in my world, is basically the ceremonial ribbon-cutting for a 4-day weekend. And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, I have earned this one. This week at work, I was deep in the trenches—trainings, tracking spreadsheets, clicking boxes like I was training for the Spreadsheet Olympics. At one point I looked up and it was 5pm… 5pm! Time had just packed up its things and ghosted me. If I hadn’t checked the clock, I’d probably still be there right now, fossilized at my desk.

Some days when quitting time hits, I turn into Fred Flintstone punching out—YABBA DABBA DOO!—except instead of sliding down a dinosaur tail, I’m just aggressively shutting my laptop and speed-walking to freedom.

Later today, I’m having lunch with a couple of retired coworkers—which really just means I’ll get wisdom, stories, and possibly directions on how to nap professionally. But let’s be honest, I also have a mission: vinyl hunting. Because when I have free time, I don’t relax—I flip through crates like a musical archaeologist.

And if I stumble across something with a name like “Argia”…oh, it’s coming home with me. I mean, Argia? That’s not a name, that’s a deep-cut Scrabble word. Clearly she never had a publicist saying, “Maybe let’s rebrand.” But honestly, respect to her—she stuck with it, recorded a couple of girl group gems, and then ZING (pun intended), she vanished into the night like a mysterious vinyl ninja.

Be true to yourself, Argia. Even if the charts weren’t ready for you…my record shelf is.

 

Orville Couch - Hello Trouble / Anywhere There's A Crowd

This is my first public service announcement this week, and this one is about getting a routine colonoscopy, which means I am officially the town crier of digestive health. When I called to schedule it, my brain immediately started blasting random songs like it was hosting a chaotic internal DJ battle. Is that weird? Absolutely. But colonoscopies are weird too — they’re intimate, awkward, and feel like you’re starring in a medical reality show nobody asked for.

The prep turns your bathroom into a high‑traffic disaster zone. You’re basically living there, guarding the toilet like it’s a national monument. Time stops. Physics breaks. You start seeing visions.

Then you arrive for the procedure, and suddenly there’s a whole crowd in the room: the doctor, nurses, attendants, anesthesiologist, three interns who wandered in because they smelled coffee and possibly a guy named Carl who wandered in looking for the vending machine. Everyone is calmly preparing equipment while you’re lying there thinking, “Is this a colonoscopy or a surprise birthday party for my lower intestine?”

And somewhere in the chaos, my mind drifts to Orville Couch — a name so country it should come with its own tumbleweed. He had two charting songs, including Hello Trouble, which hit #5 on the country charts. Honestly, Hello Trouble feels like the official anthem of colonoscopy prep. The moment the laxative kicks in, your digestive system kicks open the saloon doors and says, “Howdy, partner. We’re about to go on a journey.”

Graham Parker And The Rumour- Stick To Me

I want to make it perfectly clear—there is NO such thing as too much Graham Parker. None. Zero.  The concept simply does not exist. I could turn this entire blog into a 24/7, non-stop Graham Parker Appreciation Network and shrine—album by album, song by song, lyrical breakdowns, deep cuts, live versions, B-sides—and it would not only be justified, it would be a public service and would feel completely normal, healthy, and possibly even medically recommended (in my world, anyway).  

This past weekend I achieved a level of Graham Parker devotion normally reserved for ancient cults and tax audits: I ordered TWO of his albums—one autographed, because clearly I deserve luxury—and a book from his record company. At this point I’m not just a fan; I’m basically the CFO of the Graham Parker Merch Acquisition Department.

If SiriusXM had even an ounce of decency, there would already be a dedicated Graham Parker channel and I would be not just a charter member, but probably calling in daily like some kind of obsessive lunatic requesting the same songs I already own five versions of. Until that glorious day arrives, Underground Garage is basically the lone outpost keeping the faith alive, and for that, I salute them.

Stick to Me drops in 1977, right as Graham is starting to get some traction in the U.S., and where am I? Twelve years old, listening to whatever watered-down, focus-grouped nonsense my local radio stations were spoon-feeding me. And let me tell you—they were NOT playing Graham Parker. No, no, that would have required taste, courage, and possibly a functioning spine.  Apparently, that was considered “too interesting” for daytime programming.

My real introduction came later—late-night radio, when the DJs would go rogue and clearly decide, “You know what? Let’s actually play good music for a few hours.” That’s when Graham sneaks in, and suddenly it’s like—what IS this? Who IS this? Why does this sound about 1,000 times better than everything I hear during the day? I immediately realized that my daytime listening consisted mostly of what can only be described as premium-grade “el crapo.”

From that point forward, it’s game over. You don’t casually listen to Graham Parker—you fall down the rabbit hole. Hard. Naturally, this led to a daily routine: stay up late, discover amazing music, then spend the next day wondering why the radio suddenly sounded like it had given up on life.

And yes, Graham has already shown up on this blog four times. FOUR. Honestly, I’m showing admirable restraint. I do need to go back and add some photos to those posts, especially now that I’ve picked up a few items that further justify—if not outright demand—additional Graham content. Not that I need justification, but it’s nice to pretend.

Because this isn’t just appreciation anymore. This is a full-blown Graham Parker situation.

The Reveliers - Part III / Maureen

Mondays don’t sneak up on you… they attack. Like—no warning, no hesitation—just boom, full-speed NASCAR into your soul. I finally get into a groove—life’s feeling good—and then suddenly it’s like, “Hey! Get dressed. You have responsibilities.” But I’m taking a little comfort this week—short week. Thursday off, Friday’s a holiday. Which means mentally, I’ve already stopped working.

But first… we’ve got to set the mood right. Let’s get some catchy instrumentals going—something with a little groove, a little bounce… something that gets the toes tapping before the chaos begins. Because nothing says “I’m about to tell you about my weekend struggles” like background music that makes it sound way more impressive than it actually was.

This weekend started out simply. I picked up my resurrected mower from the shop and went to mow the lawn. And when I say “mowed the lawn,” I don’t mean a nice, peaceful suburban chore. No—this was an expedition.

I fire it up and immediately realize… I am not mowing a yard. I am entering a biome. This wasn’t grass. This was a National Geographic special. I’m halfway expecting David Attenborough to pop up like: “Here we see a middle-aged man… in his natural habitat… confused, sweaty, and immediately regretting his life choices…”

I’m pushing this mower through what can only be described as a backyard rainforest thinking, “I might discover a lost Mayan temple back here.” And I didn’t find one… which honestly felt rude. Like if I’m going through that, at least give me a cursed artifact.

But you know what I didn’t find? Spider webs… and snakes. And at this point in life… that’s a win. If I finish yard work and there are zero spiders or snakes involved, I’m like, “Successful weekend. No notes.”

Meanwhile, my dog Cooper is out there watching me. Before, the grass was so tall he could only see me like—two little eyes peeking through the blades like he’s in a spy movie. Now the lawn is cut and he’s just standing there like, “Oh wow… you’ve always looked that tired, huh?”

But I prepared for this journey properly. Before I even started, I picked up some jazz and soul records at a friend’s house, because nothing motivates yard work like knowing, “If I survive this… there’s vinyl waiting.”

And then Saturday hits the high point—and I don’t know what I did right in life—three record packages show up in the mail. Three. That’s not mail. That’s a spiritual experience. I’m standing in my living room like a vinyl goblin: “Yessss… my precious…”

So now I’ve got records everywhere, the lawn is finally under control, no spiders, no snakes, dog’s judging me less aggressively… and I’m just standing there singing like Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies:

“I’VE GOT JOY JOY JOY JOY DOWN IN MY HEART!”

—which, at this stage of life, might also be acid reflux… but we’re calling it joy.

Roland Gee /Clarence Yelverton- The Same GOD/Reap What You sow

I was genuinely worried the static was going to bully this track into early retirement, but here I am—fighting through it like a DJ who refuses to abandon the booth during a full‑blown lightning storm. Because honestly? These songs are just too good not to unleash on the world. Music is basically the duct tape holding my soul together, and at this point I’m held together with more tape than speaker.

And I will never understand how people stick to one genre. One. Single. Genre. Meanwhile As you can clearly see, I’m over here musically zig-zagging like I’ve had three cups of coffee and no supervision—and loving every second of it and thriving.

Now, on the tech side (cue dramatic organ chord): I got my ReadySHARE working on my older computer like it was a loyal old dog… but my new sleek machine? Absolutely not. It looked at me like, “No love today – later dude, or never.” So I adapted. I started tossing together basic posts, uploading pictures, throwing songs onto my media storage site, and then had a revelation that hit me like a plot twist in a soap opera:

I have songs with no pictures… and pictures with no songs.

My content is basically running a mismatched sock empire.

BUT—silver lining—I’ve got about a month’s worth of half-finished posts sitting there like polite little ghosts waiting for me to write the words give them life. So logically, that means I don’t have to record anything for a while, right?

…Right.

WRONG. Absolutely not.

Because those stacks of 45s are not shrinking, and my “usual suspects” of groups I have neglected are all in there, lined up banging on the turntable door. Meanwhile I’m just standing there like: “Guys… I only pressed shuffle.” And let’s be real—there is always room (and spiritual necessity) for more Gospel in the mix.

So yeah… it’s a great time to be in my collection. It’s chaotic, slightly feral, questionably organized, but full of absolute gems—and I’m just over here digging through it like a kid in a candy store with no adult supervision.

Chandells - We Are The Ones/Little Girl, Pretty Girl

I picked up this Colorado 45 a few months ago via mail order, because nothing says “I’m living my best life” like buying obscure 45s sight‑unseen from strangers. I grew up about 30 miles from Pueblo, though at the time I treated it like a mysterious land beyond the horizon — the Narnia of southern Colorado, except instead of talking animals you get steel mills and green chile.

I didn’t spend much time there until my first year of college at The University of Southern Colorado (now Colorado State University Pueblo). And let me tell you, nothing makes you feel like a fossilized relic quite like applying to grad school at East Carolina University in 2010 and calling USC for your transcripts, only to hear: “Oh, those are in the archives… we’ll have to find them.” THE ARCHIVES. As if my academic records were ancient scrolls stored in a climate‑controlled vault guarded by a guy named Harold who hasn’t blinked since 1987. I half expected them to say, “We’ll need a team of archaeologists and possibly a priest.”

Back in March, I wrote about picking up 400 45s when I visited my mom — that guy lived in Pueblo too. I can only imagine the records his grandfather had that were already sold. Probably a treasure trove of stuff that would make collectors weep softly into their Discogs want lists.

Anyway, the only Pueblo 45 I remember ever finding in the dense wild was a copy of The Trolls (which I posted last year), and it was so beat up and warped it looked like it had survived a small house fire and then been used as a coaster. I sold it years ago and then found the PS and it took me 20+ years to find another copy. This 45 doesn’t have the raw power of The Trolls, but it’s got that charming Teen wannabe Garage vibe — like the band couldn’t decide whether they wanted to jingle jangle rock out or sit cross‑legged with acoustic guitars and talk about feelings. According to the Cogs of Discs, only 500 were pressed, and Norman Petty handled the Hammond and production. It’s not an expensive record, but it is a neat little artifact from the only 45 this group ever put out.

As for today: it’s the day I pick up my lawnmower, freshly resurrected from the brink of death like some suburban Lazarus. Then I get to mow the jungle formerly known as my yard. After that, it’s recording time — I’ve got some 12" singles, maybe a few LP cuts, and of course the 7" platters that are stacked everywhere like vinyl Jenga. Nothing like being your own boss… …until your significant other (the real boss) hands you the chore list with the kind of authority that makes HR departments tremble.