Wayne Cochran - Some-A' Your Sweet Love/When My Baby Cries

Sometimes it rains, pours, and then life unpolitely reminds you your roof is older than Wayne Cochran’s hair routine. The washer’s joining the rebellion too, because apparently all my appliances formed a union overnight.

I’m not sure soul music can soothe this particular chaos, but I’m giving it a shot. And if anyone can distract me from home‑repair doom, it’s Wayne Cochran — the man whose hair had its own gravitational field and whose voice could probably fix a roof just by hitting the right note. I haven’t listened to him much, but Some-A' of Your Sweet Love and When My Baby Cries make it clear the guy had pipes strong enough to negotiate peace treaties.

Short. Sweet. Slightly soggy. Perfect.

Nino Tempo and April Stevens- The Habit of Loving You Baby/You'll Be Needing Me Baby

Naturally — because I operate on a personal timeline known only to me, the moon, and Cooper the wonder dog, I decided to record the A‑side second. Bold. Avant‑garde. A little “I refuse to be constrained by linear time,” which honestly is the correct attitude for a 1966 chart‑bubbler.

So, we begin with The Habit of Loving You Baby, the flipped over B side and suddenly the room gets bigger, the lights get dimmer, with it doing its best Righteous Brothers slow‑burn impression. It’s got that “lean in, kid, this is the emotional payoff” vibe. It carries the room. It opens like a slow curtain, the kind of production that stretches out its arms and fills the space. There’s a deep‑blue resonance that feels like it’s echoing off the walls of some long‑closed nightclub. It hits the spot because it doesn’t rush; it lets the emotion pool in the corners.

The proposed A side, You’ll Be Needing Me Baby, a track (written by David Gates)  that politely knocked on the door of the Hot 100, peeked inside, and said, “Ah, no thanks, I’m good,” before settling at #133. It’s got that mid‑60s sheen — the kind of song that imagines itself wearing a matching suit just like the singers are wearing.

And then there is the closeness of the singers…Look — Nino and April were brother and sister, but if you didn’t know that, you might assume they were… let’s say… sharing a single milkshake with two straws and making prolonged eye contact. Their harmonies have that “we’re either deeply connected or this is mildly inappropriate” energy.

Is that chemistry? Is that creepiness? Is that just the 60s being the 60s?  Honestly, it’s probably all three. The era specialized in “vaguely sensual but also confusing” duos.

And yes, this absolutely counts as fluff — but the good kind. The kind of fluff that feels like a warm towel fresh out of the dryer. The kind of fluff that makes you say, “You know what? Life is hard. Give me something with strings, harmonies, and a slightly over‑dramatic bridge.”

Sometimes you just need a little sonic cotton candy.

The Jags - Woman's World/Dumb Blonde

Powerpop Wednesday. I’m caffeinated. I’m spinning powerpop. I’m boppin’ like a nutzo with scholarly intent. Hump day is basically the musical equivalent of a B‑side: sometimes great, sometimes weird, sometimes you just want to flip the record and get to the weekend already. The Jags are exactly the kind of mid‑week chaos I support. It’s the sonic equivalent of slapping the snooze button, chugging a questionable amount of coffee, and deciding—against all evidence—that today might actually work out.

And The Jags? They didn’t just write hooks. They engineered industrial‑strength pop snares designed to grab you by the collar and drag you onto the dance floor like a cartoon character being yanked offstage by a vaudeville cane.

Woman’s World and Dumb Blonde are exactly the kind of songs that make your brain flip and activates the ancient vinyl‑collector gene buried deep in your DNA. Suddenly you’re pacing the room like a deranged archivist muttering matrix numbers under your breath, clutching a 45 like it’s the Rosetta Stone of jangly pop.

Early ’80s bands like this were everywhere—everywhere—but somehow also invisible. It was a golden era of bands with one perfect single, albums that deserved better distribution, labels that couldn’t market their way out of a paper bag, and record store clerks who acted like gatekeepers to a secret society of hooks and harmonies.

Half of them got lost in the shuffle, buried under New Wave haircuts, MTV neon, and the rise of synths that sounded like malfunctioning microwaves. But The Jags? They were one of those groups who could’ve been huge if the universe had rolled the dice differently.

The Chills Doledrums

Two years ago, the world lost Martin Phillips — a remarkable artist of rare sensitivity and imagination whose music shaped so much of what I love. I’ve written before of my love of the Chills and about how deeply he influenced me, and how that admiration opened the door to so many other New Zealand bands that have become woven into the soundtrack of my life.

I only had one direct interaction with Martin, and I’ve carried a quiet regret about it ever since. In 2001, he released the three CD collection Secret Box: Chills Rarities, which I ordered immediately. When it arrived, the special jewel case was damaged, and I emailed him to complain. He responded with humility and kindness, apologized, and sent a replacement without hesitation. Over the years, I’ve replayed that moment and recognized how misplaced my frustration was — as if he were personally responsible for whatever happened in transit. He handled it with humility and generosity, and I wish I had matched that.

With time, I’ve revisited that exchange and recognized how misplaced my irritation was — directed at someone who had poured so much of himself into his work, someone who had weathered struggles far greater than a damaged jewel box. Knowing now how difficult certain years were for him only deepens my regret. I’ve grown a lot in the twenty five years since then, and I’ve learned from moments like this. I wish I had written back, apologized, and simply told him how profoundly his music has meant to me — how inspiring it was to watch him persevere through challenges and continue creating beauty.  

I doubt he ever connected my name as a supporter of his documentary to that old email. He never struck me as someone who held onto small grievances or keep a ledger of human imperfections or kept score. Still, I carry the wish that I had offered him the gratitude he deserved.

Martin, wherever you are — know that you were cherished by countless people across this wide world, and that your absence is felt. Your music continues to echo, gentle and enduring, in all the places you once illuminated.

 

Dick Vance - Nuthin, Man Nuthin / Sharon Oh Sharon

I picked up this little oddball at the flea market a few weeks ago, and it’s the kind of record that makes you stare at the label like it’s trying to gaslight you. It’s listed as Dick Vance… yet the music is by Dominic and the Dominos. How do you even title this thing? “Dick Vance Presents Dominic & The Dominos Featuring A Mild Identity Crisis”?

Discogs claims Dick Vance was a rock & roll performer, which is interesting, because I’ve only ever seen two singles under his name. But then — plot twist — he was inducted into the Iowa Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2000. Iowa! Rock & Roll Hall of Fame! My eyebrows did a full gymnast routine.

Digging deeper, I find out he wasn’t inducted as a performer at all, but as a disc jockey. Turns out he was a program director and DJ at KSO in Iowa from 1958–1964. Naturally, this raises the important question: was he spinning his own records on the air, or was that frowned upon? Because if I had cut a record back then, I’d be finding ways to sneak it into every set. Then again, maybe not. I stumbled across a web page from his time as a program director with a list of programing rules and they were strict. I’m fairly certain my blog alone would have earned me several trips to his office weekly before eventually being launched headfirst into unemployment and politely escorted out of the building and told never to darken their transmitter again.

But enough about Dick—let’s talk about Nuthin Man Nuthin — Can you imagine this thing getting airtime in Iowa of all places? “Sharon” was supposedly the A-side, which makes sense since it’s the safer, more respectable choice. It’s conservative, polite, the kind of song you could drop at a neighborhood barbecue and the crowd wouldn’t even flinch — it’s one of those perfectly harmless sides you keep in your crate for moments when you don’t want to scare anyone off. The kind of track that slips by unnoticed while you quietly judge everyone for not realizing it’s a minor footnote in the catalog of obscure regional doowop you’ve been evangelizing since 1998.

Nuthin Man Nuthin, however, is… not that. It opens with chatter, some noise, bird sounds, then someone yells “hey man, where’s the women?” like they’re lost at the wrong party, and then a guitar solo kicks in so hot it probably violated several Midwestern broadcasting ordinances. This is not cornfield‑approved content.

Dick Vance passed away in 2000 at the ripe age of 88, leaving behind a legacy of two singles, one Hall of Fame induction, and one extremely confusing 45 that now lives in my collection like a feral cat I’ve decided to adopt.

Capitol City Five - Blessed Are The Poor And Spirit/Something Within

Last night handed me the deepest sleep I’ve had in ages, the kind of slumber that should’ve reset my soul like a factory reboot — and yet I still woke up exhausted. Cooper and I managed a short walk, but I spent the whole time feeling like my eyelids were auditioning for the role of “heavy velvet curtains.” Even the coffee isn’t stepping up; it’s just sitting there looking pretty while I contemplate a power nap like it’s a religious calling.

Today’s lesson came from a flea‑market gamble I made a few weeks back — one of those blind buys where you pray it’s what you think it is, and it’s downright righteous when it actually is. The bonus revelation: the Capitol City Five were a North Carolina gospel group from Raleigh (which, yes, I should’ve pieced together from the name alone). Wilbert Jones on one side, James Thomason the other. Deep southern spiritual sounds drifting through a foggy morning… honestly, it’s the closest thing to caffeine that’s working.

The Troyes- Love Comes, Love Dies/Help Me Find Myself

It has been just a horrible week… My lower back decided to file a formal complaint with HR, where sitting and lying down became an Olympic event in discomfort, which meant sleep was basically a rumor. I was twisted up like a pretzel someone dropped behind the couch — the kind you find years later and think, “How was this ever food?” Then, in a bold act of self‑punishment, I went celibate from coffee and good food all week because I had a colonoscopy Friday. A colonoscopy. Truly the Super Bowl of indignities.

But it is the best 45‑minute sleep money can buy — It’s not just a nap. It’s a micro‑vacation. A budget‑friendly coma. A medical‑sponsored spiritual reset. The kind of nap that feels like you briefly slipped into a parallel universe where you wake up unsure of your name, the year, or why your wife is staring at you like you’ve been elected mayor of the recovery room in your half nakedness from the waist down glory.

So the lead‑up to that short blissful slumber? Oh, it wasn’t just rough — it was Brutal, Biblical rough. We’re talking about caffeine withdrawal headaches so intense they could’ve been listed as one of the lesser‑known plagues. I was one migraine away from grabbing a staff and parting the Red Sea. And now? This morning, after returning to another pain filled night with no sleep night,  I sit here treating this cup of coffee like it’s a sacred potion brewed by forest wizards. I’m sniffing it, swirling it, judging its legs like I’m performing a one‑person show called The Phantom of the Café. I’ve become the sort of person who whispers “caramel notes” into the void. I earned this

So yes, I feel like celebrating my morning coffee revival with sounds that bring joy, and I’m finally getting to this one on the blog — it’s been warming the bullpen bench for a while. I heard snippets on the web prior to purchase and immediately thought, Oh yeah, that’s mine now.

The Troyes. Why was this not a classic? “Love Comes and Love Dies” doesn’t just start — it pounds in like it’s kicking down your front door. They were signed to Ray Anthony’s Space label, which is such an odd pairing it feels like someone pulled record‑label names out of a hat.

And the picture sleeve? Smokin’. Gorgeous. A real collector’s trophy. Do I own it? Of course not. Will I ever? Probably not — unless I stumble across it in some cosmic garage sale where the universe decides to throw me a bone.

But the record itself? Pure joy. Exactly what a man deserves after a week of back pain, sleep depravation, caffeine celibacy, and medical adventures in plumbing.

Percy Sledge - Heart Of A Child/It Tears Me Up

I’m pretty sure this is the first Percy Sledge 45 I’ve actually listened to, which is frankly embarrassing because I’ve been acting like he only recorded When A Man Loves A Woman — the song that’s been played so many times it’s basically a federally mandated emotional PSA and if I am being honest one I never liked.

While When a Man Loves a Woman was his debut thunderbolt — straight to #1 like Percy personally elbowed his way to the front of the charts — It Tears Me Up cruised in at #20 as his fourth‑highest hit. But honestly? The B‑side is the one that sucker‑punches me right in the sternum. It doesn’t just “kick” — it shows up wearing steel‑toed boots and a bad attitude, ready to rearrange my emotional furniture. This one says, “Hey buddy, maybe stop judging me by the one song that’s been used in every wedding slideshow since 1966.”

And now I’m realizing I’ve got a whole colony of Percy Sledge 45s hibernating in boxes somewhere. At some point I clearly need to host a private Percy Sledge listening party, complete with snacks, beverages, and the kind of solemn commitment usually reserved for tax season. I’ll dim the lights, cue up the turntable, and let Percy personally remind me that he was way more than one slow‑dance classic.

Honestly, I’m a little excited. It’s like discovering a secret room in your own house — except the room is full of soul records and questionable musical choices.

 

10,000 Maniacs - Like The Weather

I was working nights at a group home while attending Colorado State University when I first heard 10,000 Maniacs on college radio — back when college radio still felt like a secret society run by sleep‑deprived anthropology majors who believed deeply in the spiritual power of jangly guitars. Like the Weather wasn’t just a staple; it was the unofficial national anthem for those up and down Colorado weather days.

And every time I hear the line “Shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather,” my brain immediately drags me back to that one day I rode my mountain bike from class in a full biblical rainstorm. I wasn’t just soaked — I achieved maximum saturation, the kind of wet where your socks become philosophical and your backpack starts questioning its life choices. By the time I got to work, I looked like someone who had tried to commute through a car wash on purpose.

So with the weather we’ve been having lately, this song feels cosmically appropriate — like the universe is a DJ who only plays college‑radio deep cuts and decided, “Hey, remember when you were a soggy undergrad with a mountain bike and questionable judgment? Let’s spin that track again.”

 

The Lurkers - New Guitar In Town / Little Ole Wine Drinker me

A powerpop‑punk 45 like this in 1979 Colorado Springs would’ve been about as common as a unicorn working the counter at Woolworth’s. You could scour every strip‑mall record nook, every mall music chain, every dusty rack of “oldies” that smelled faintly of mildew and broken dreams — nothing. Not even a rumor. If someone did have it, they were probably the kind of person who also owned a Japanese import of The Lurkers and insisted British punk sounded better on “proper UK vinyl,” spoken with the confidence of a teenager who had never left the county.

The idea that even the hippest U.S. record store in ’79 stocked this? I mean… maybe. Maybe. But only if the clerk was some visionary who read Sniffin’ Glue, worshipped Stiff Records, and had a cousin in London who mailed contraband 45s in envelopes marked “religious pamphlets.” Otherwise, no — this thing wasn’t crossing the Atlantic unless it stowed away in someone’s suitcase next to a pair of platform shoes and a duty‑free Toblerone.

But The Lurkers are a defiant lot and show up anyway declaring there’s a new guitar in town, like they’re kicking down the saloon doors of punk and slapping a sheriff’s badge on a Telecaster. That guitar really is glorious — all the right crunch, all the right snot, all the right “we recorded this in a room with one working lightbulb and a borrowed amp.” It’s the exact DNA you want from a powerpunk single: fast, loud, catchy, and slightly unhinged.

And they sneak a little chaos on the B‑side. Because of course — of course — they sneak in a Merle Haggard cover. Punk bands in the late ’70s loved doing this: “We’re angry, we’re loud, we’re anti‑everything… also here’s a country tune because we contain multitudes.” It’s not even cover‑version week, but The Lurkers clearly operate on their own cosmic calendar.

 

Ronnie Self -Houdini /Bless My Broken Heart

My first brush with Ronnie Self came when I was about five, living in a drafty old three‑story house in Granby, Colorado — the kind of place where every floorboard had an opinion. In the basement sat my parents’ humble little turntable and Dad’s box of 45s. I don’t remember most of them, but three stood out like neon signs: Johnny Mathis, the Everly Brothers’ Bye Bye Love, and Ronnie Self’s Bop‑A‑Lena.

Fast‑forward a few years, and once I caught the record‑collecting fever, Dad suddenly found himself missing one Ronnie Self 45. I plead the fifth.

Ronnie earned the nickname Mr. Frantic, and his career zig‑zagged across Columbia, ABC, Decca, KAPP — basically every label that existed within shouting distance. Yet only Bop‑A‑Lena cracked the Top 100, landing at #63 for a single week. One week! How does a song come in swinging like a bar fight and then vanish like it forgot to pay rent? It’s not a polite exit. It’s a smoke‑bomb‑and‑sprint exit. It Houdini’d!

His songwriting career shone brighter: I’m Sorry and Sweet Nothings for Brenda Lee are still fixtures of American pop. He was often listed as co‑writer because he frequently borrowed money, and his manager Dub Albright needed a way to recoup the loans.

I’ve got several Ronnie uploads ready to go, and honestly it was a coin toss which one gets to sit in the waiting room for a month. Ronnie lived a heartbreakingly short life, passing at 43 after years of addiction, self‑neglect, and unraveling mental health. A frantic, gifted artist gone too soon, whose story deserves to be told with both admiration and care.

 

Wild Bill and and the Blue Denims - Mona My Love

My back has been as stiff as a surfboard lately — the kind you wax once and immediately regret. I’m doing the stretches, the exercises, and I finally retired my worn‑out work chair, which had all the ergonomic support of a milk crate. I put my new chair together yesterday, and while it’s definitely not the Cadillac of office thrones, I’m hoping the ride won’t leave me shaped like a question mark. I’ve spent enough years hunched over keyboards to qualify as punctuation; I’d prefer this chair not finish the job.

Monday Surf Question: When did surf music actually come crashing onto the shore?  Wiki claims 1958, which means this 1959 rocker sits right at the dawn of the wave — the primordial ooze of reverb, twang, and teenage bravado. Even if Gone Records was based out of New York, surf music didn’t care about geography; it cared about attitude, echo chambers, and whether your guitar sounded like it was trying to outrun a shark.

This appears to be the one and only release from Wild Bill and the Blue Denims — a band name that already sounds like a denim‑clad superhero team. I’m guessing after this single they were politely escorted out of the studio, possibly for excessive reverb usage or for insisting the engineer call them “Wild Bill and the Extremely Blue Denims.”

A noble beginning. A noble end. A perfect surf career arc: show up, shred once, vanish like a wave that refuses to explain itself. 

Van Morrison - Full Force Gale

Van Morrison has built a career entirely on his own terms — mostly by ignoring everyone else’s terms, shredding them, and then setting the scraps on fire while humming a mystical Celtic melody. But Van? Van just is. There’s a whole Van Morrison aesthetic that shows up across his albums: that majestic, mystical, “I have communed with the ancient spirits of Belfast and they gave me a saxophone” vibe. The musical extravagance, the lyrics that make you think deep thoughts you didn’t plan on having such as “Wait, am I supposed to be enlightened right now?”— it’s all part of the gravitational pull.   

So imagine my face when I looked at his ’70s discography and realized those albums — the ones containing absolute classics  — never grazed the US top 10. How did Wavelength or St. Dominic’s Preview not chart higher? Did the charts get lost? Did someone accidentally file Van under “Mystical Weather Events” instead of “Music”? Was FM radio too busy blasting songs about trucks, heartbreak, and questionable fashion choices?

He’s had three US top‑10 albums since 2008 — and I’ll confess, I don’t own them and haven’t heard them. Which means I’m basically the guy yelling “Justice for Van!” while simultaneously contributing nothing to the cause, -I’m part of the problem, but let’s not dwell on that.

And yes, he defiantly (correct spelling, correct attitude, correct level of eyebrow lift) was not a singles artist. Case in point: this weeks mail‑order arrival — a single I genuinely thought I already owned, proving once again that my memory is basically a block of Swiss cheese left out in the sun. I have no idea how Warner Brothers thought this track was going to chart. Don’t get me wrong — it’s fantastic, with those trademark vocals that sound like he’s simultaneously preaching, philosophizing, and gently reminding your soul that it hasn’t done its spiritual homework.

But if you were around in the late ’70s, you remember FM radio. And FM radio was… not this. Not even close. Throw in the spiritual angle and the thing sank faster than a cinder block tied to a crooked politician who thought he could swim his way out of trouble.

Majestic? Absolutely. Brilliant? Without question. Chart‑friendly? Only if the charts suddenly decided to embrace transcendental mysticism, powered enlightenment and the general vibe of a man who refuses to be rushed.

The Byrds - My Back Pages/Renaissance Fair

The Byrds do Dylan better than Dylan — and yes, I say that as someone who genuinely loves Dylan, harmonica wheeze and all. But those Byrds harmonies and chiming, cathedral bell guitars that jangle like a choir of caffeinated angels tapping on mason jars! During this era, the Byrds weren’t just good — they were operating at a level where the laws of physics politely stepped aside.

Even with Gene Clark leaving — which was basically the musical equivalent of losing your star songwriter, your emotional ballast, and the one guy who remembered where the car was parked — they still soared. And then there’s Crosby. Ah yes, Crosby. The eternal philosophical question: Was this the beginning of Crosby becoming Crosby, or was Crosby always Crosby and simply waiting for the right cosmic alignment to unleash maximum Crosby? You know exactly what I mean. The man was a walking personality eclipse and supernova. A chaos elemental with a harmony fetish.

Chart wise, the Byrds came out swinging with two #1 singles and then… promptly decided that was enough chart success for one lifetime. No more top 10s, only seven top 40 hits, and a reputation as “not really a singles band,” which is a travesty of cosmic proportions. Some of those singles should’ve been massive — like “My Back Pages,” which stalled at #30, probably because the public thought the Byrds were running a Dylan cover subscription service.

But the B side? Oh, the B side. Crosby and McGuinn cooked up a gem so good it should’ve come with a warning label. One of the finest Byrds tracks ever — the kind of song that makes you wonder why the charts didn’t simply apologize and start over.

Album wise, they had two top 10 LPs (one being a greatest hits, which feels like cheating, but we’ll allow it) and nine top 40 albums. And those early records? Some of the most beautifully crafted albums you’ll ever hear — shimmering, inventive, and absolutely bulletproof.

I still get geeky about chart positions — a side effect of early collecting days when Billboard numbers felt like sacred scripture — but in the end, it’s always the music. The charts can say whatever they want. The Byrds already wrote their legacy in 12 string ink and filed it under “We Told You So.”

=

 

Ray Rivera - Bend Me Shape Me

Saturday morning, I embark on my heroic quest to retrieve my lawn mower — the mighty grass‑slayer that the repair shop has allegedly reassembled in the correct order this time. May it have a sharpened desire to maul grass. 

While I’m at it, I’m trying to convince my wife that this is the perfect excuse for a date night. You know: “Hey babe, want to eat food someone else cooked and a Movie?” Maybe even pretending we’re people who go out after 7 PM.” I’m pitching it as “community engagement,” which sounds noble enough that she might fall for it.

Meanwhile, Friday Soul is serving up Latin Boogaloo, and this week’s selection is basically the multiverse of cover songs. A cover… of a cover… of a cover… of a cover. At this point the song has had more reincarnations than a Buddhist housecat.

If the timeline is to be believed (and honestly, it reads like someone spilled a stack of 45s and tried to reassemble history from memory), the Outsiders kicked things off in 1966, The Models jumped in during July ’67, the American Breed made it a hit in December ’67, and Amen Corner in January 68 and finally Ray got around to it in March ’68. Truly, this tune has lived a life of chaotic glory.

Ray’s wiki page claims he co-wrote it, but there’s absolutely zero evidence of that — unless “co-writing” means “standing vaguely near Scott English while he cowrote it.” And yes, Scott English is the same guy who wrote Mandy, which means he’s responsible for both Barry Manilow’s first mega-hit and this hydra. So yes, the man who gave the world Mandy also unleashed this eclectic Rock and Boogaloo beast

So please enjoy this Latin Boogaloo take on a song that has been bent, shaped, folded, spindled, reissued, misattributed, resurrected, and hopefully — unlike my lawn mower — assembled correctly at least once in its lifetime.

Blue Ash - Anytime At All/She's So Nice

 ‘I’m sitting here with my cup of coffee — which at this point is less a beverage and more a spiritual advisor and realizing — once again — I’ve got too many cover versions for one week. It’s like they breed when I’m not looking. So yes, August is getting another Cover Week, because apparently my life is now scheduled around rogue cover songs and less a programming choice and more a recurring geological event. No more marathon medleys, though; I’m retiring those before they retire me. Still, the mix will be good — eclectic, eccentric, and probably requiring a small emotional support beverage- might I suggest New Mexico Piñon Coffee.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a stack of 45s glaring at me from across the room like, “Buddy, you said you’d get to us.” I’m staring at the calendar, trying to sketch out a plan… a map to musical enlightenment… or at least a well organized cacophony of pleasantness. I’ll settle for pleasantness. Enlightenment feels like a stretch before 9 a.m.

Today’s offering is a 45 I picked up in Colorado Springs back in March — and of course there’s a backstory, because with me there’s always a backstory. Flashback to December 2024: we went to Colorado for Christmas to surprise Mom, and I hit a few record stores (as one does). This 45 was sitting in a bin, practically waving at me, and I… did not buy it. I told myself I’d come back later in the week, but time slipped away like a drummer who didn’t show up for rehearsal.

Fast‑forward to March: I return, dig through the bins, and it’s GONE. Missing. Abducted. Ascended. But then I notice the owner had moved some 45 bins, and there it was — waiting for me like a cosmic prank. This time I didn’t hesitate. I lunged. I pounced. I became the apex predator of the record store. I may have hissed. I cannot confirm.

Which brings me to today’s burning question: were the Beatles fashionable in 1974–75? Blue Ash apparently thought so. Sure, the solo Beatles were all over the radio, but I don’t remember hearing much actual Beatles. Then again, I was just discovering rock and roll from the school bus radio, and they were definitely not playing Blue Ash. Honestly, looking back I am not sure they were playing much cool music at all. Don’t get me wrong — plenty of fantastic stuff from that era still lives on my playlist — but music was already barreling down the disco highway, and that particular exit is not one I take unless forced by circumstance or hostage situation.

Blue Ash might make another appearance here someday, if the record cosmos decide to open up the cosmic causeways and drop a 45 from my want list directly into my hands. I’m ready, universe. I’ve got shelf space. Probably. Maybe. Let’s not check.