Larry Trider - Carbon Copy/House Of The Blues

This has been described as popcorn soul, which immediately made me picture a committee of very serious Belgian citizens sitting in a circle, earnestly debating what soul music is while passing around a bowl of Jiffy Pop. I mean… bless them. They tried.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit I have absolutely no clue how to define popcorn soul. None. Zero. If you asked me to explain it, I’d probably just start sweating and point at a saxophone. But if Larry Tridder and Carbon Copy are ambassadors of this mysterious subgenre, then fine — I can groove with that. I don’t need to understand it to enjoy it. Half my record collection is built on that principle.

Larry himself passed in 2020 at the age of 80, and while he never cracked the charts (at least according to my extremely scientific method of “Googling until I get distracted”), the man had a busy career. He knocked boots with Buddy Holly and the Crickets, recorded in the Norman Petty studios, and generally lived the kind of musical life that makes you go, “Dang, okay, sir!”

It’s a nice reminder that a good career doesn’t have to be Beatles‑level or come with screaming fans and airport chaos. Sometimes it’s just decades of steady work, cool collaborations, and leaving behind a few 45s weirdos like me get excited about while drinking morning coffee.

Carl Perkins - Pink Pedal Pushers/Jive After Five

Don’t you just love kickin’ Rockabilly — that hip‑shakin’, hair‑greasin’, “my car only has two gears and both of them are trouble” kind of music? But here’s the cosmic joke: Carl Perkins kept scoring bigger hits on the Country charts than the Rock charts. The man invented the sound that makes teenagers climb out windows, and Billboard said, “Yes, but have you considered… tractors?”

Take Pink Pedal Pushers — #91 on the Pop charts, #17 on the Country charts. That’s not just a chart discrepancy; that’s a full‑blown identity crisis. Rockabilly Carl was out here setting his guitar on fire, and Country Carl was politely holding the door for folks at the Grand Ole Opry.

And then Columbia said, “We’re gonna fix this,” and unleashed this rare-as-hens-teeth promo picture sleeve — the kind of fold‑out artifact that makes collectors faint, speak in tongues, and briefly consider taking out insurance policies on their record shelves. It’s magnificent. It’s absurd. It’s the sort of thing you hold in your hands and feel your soul do a little somersault.

This is why I collect records: Because sometimes I get to cradle a picture sleeve that punches me lovingly in the belly and whispers, “Hey buddy… you’re doing life right.”

And Carl’s Sun 45s? Don’t get me started. Those are my love letters — my musical valentines — my “I care deeply, but in a cool, leather‑jacket way.” Posting them on my blog is basically me standing on a rooftop yelling, “I HAVE FEELINGS AND THEY ARE ALL 45 RPM.”

I'm just caring like that. A tenderhearted Rockabilly menace.

I have a stock copy with the stock picture sleeve — I know I do — but it’s currently living somewhere deep in the archaeological dig site I call my record room. It’s buried in those uncomped record boxes, the ones stacked like a Jenga tower built by a drunk raccoon. And am I going to go find it? Absolutely not. I’m far too lazy, spiritually unprepared, and emotionally fragile for that kind of expedition. Every time I think, “I should go look for that sleeve,” my brain immediately responds, “Or… hear me out… you could sit down and listen to Carl Perkins instead.” And honestly, that’s the kind of self‑care I believe in. Somewhere in those boxes — probably next to a stray Love 45, and at least one record I swear I’ve never seen before — that stock sleeve is just vibing, waiting for me to rediscover it like a chaotic vinyl Indiana Jones moment. But until then, it remains a mythic creature, a cardboard Bigfoot, a legendary artifact I’m too lazy to retrieve. And that’s fine. Because I know it’s there. And knowing is enough. (Also: bending over to dig through boxes is a young man’s game.)

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.

The Scott Sisters - I'll Trade a Lifetime/As Long As I Got Jesus

I present another Scott Sisters 45 and find myself wondering: What do I write this week?

Last week I posted the second of the three 45s the Scott Sisters released, and, as is often the case with these little musical time capsules, there wasn’t much information to go on. Today, I present their first release—and quite possibly their most sought-after 45. Three records. Three years. Then…nothing.

And that, of course, is where the mystery begins. Looking at the songwriting credits on the labels, I suspect the sisters themselves may have written these songs. If so, that makes these records even more intriguing to me. There is something deeply personal in music when the people singing it are also the ones doing the thinking, writing, and creating. Their music carries that combination of creativity, introspection, and gospel infusion that makes you wonder what else was happening in their lives beyond these few precious minutes captured on vinyl.

And then they disappear from the record trail. I hope they simply went on creating in other ways. Perhaps they remained active in their congregation, raised families, served their communities, and lived long, happy, well-spent lives— the kind that never makes headlines but leaves fingerprints on hearts. Maybe the music stopped, but the service didn’t. There’s something humbling about that thought.

We collectors spend a lot of time chasing records, trying to uncover who made them, where they went, and why they vanished. But occasionally the mystery reminds me that the record may not have been the most important thing they left behind. Maybe it was the life they lived after the music. And I’ll admit: thinking about them makes me reflect on my own life. Records are wonderful things to collect—but lives are meant to be lived, and hopefully, to be of some service to others.  I pray I can be of more service to others.

So here’s to the Scott Sisters: three 45s, a little mystery, some beautiful music, and a reminder that sometimes the story beyond the record is the one worth wondering about most — maybe the rest of their legacy was lived, not pressed.

San Diego Misfits -I Wanna Be Your Lover Man / Going Where The Girls Are

Yes, I’m late posting today — but listen, I’ve already lived an entire mini‑lifetime before 10 a.m. First stop: the laundromat, because our washing machine has been broken for two weeks and Electrolux sat on their fat behinds and decided it will not be examined until the 24th. Thank you, Electrolux, you magnificent bastages. Truly the Picasso of inconvenient scheduling.

Then I hit some yard sales, because I woke up with that delusional collector confidence — the “today’s the day I find a $500 Northern Soul banger for a quarter” energy. Can you say NOT. I found exactly zero treasures and one ceramic clown that looked like it wanted to steal my soul.

So, in honor of my lateness and my complete lack of yard‑sale glory, I’m giving you boys and girls something special — maybe even the only surviving copy in the world. You might think I’m exaggerating, but honestly? I might not be. Stranger things have happened. (Like those psych and soul 45s, including this one, magically teleporting to Clayton, NC — still unsolved, still weird.)

Let me back up. I bought this mystery disc a few years ago in a massive haul of 8,000 45s. Most of it was your standard “why did anyone press this?” material — the kind of stuff that makes you question both humanity and the concept of vinyl as a medium — but tucked inside were several boxes of absolute killer extremely rare West Coast psych and soul. And because it was an all‑or‑nothing deal, I had to pull the plug and take the whole mountain home. Ouch, indeed. My wallet still wakes up screaming and my wife reminds me as well.  And in the middle of that psychedelic treasure chest sat this thing — a test pressing so obscure it practically hisses, “You’re not supposed to have me.”

Naturally, I had to sleuth. I started with the Troy label, where the Cogs of Dis lists an 8-inch acetate of the A side track — except the B‑side was the same song without the audience screams. My copy doesn’t list a B‑side title, but it’s obviously a different cut — the lyrics keep shouting “Going Where The Girls Are,” and when I asked Shazam for help, it basically told me to take a hike. Full digital shrug. So I’m rolling with that. If the universe wants to correct me, it can send a surviving Misfit to my doorstep with a label copy and a handwritten apology.

Here’s the kicker: This appears to be an unreleased test pressing by the San Diego Misfits, featuring Bob Mosley, who later joined Moby Grape. Possibly the only surviving test pressing of this on Troy. Possibly the only copy, period. Possibly something that should’ve come out but didn’t, which is a crime against garage‑psych humanity.

If any surviving San Diego Misfits members are out there, please explain yourselves. We deserve answers. And maybe a reissue. Honestly, you can always purchase it from me and reissue it properly — hint hint, Get Hip, The Numero Group, Light In The Attic — just make sure you give me credit for finding the damn thing in the first place. I’m the one who rescued it from an 8,000‑record avalanche and gave it a second chance at daylight. The least you can do is slap my name somewhere in the liner notes, preferably in a font size visible from space.

hhh

Johnny Honeycutt - I'm Coming Over/If You Love Me

I’m glad it’s Friday — the kind of glad where you walk into the day like you’ve got theme music playing behind you. This week has been the kind of awful where even your coffee looks at you like, “Damn, man… again?”  I keep trying to find the perfect week for a vacation, but that’s a fairy tale. My schedule isn’t going to magically behave; it’s a wild animal that knocks over furniture and chews electrical cords. So I’m done negotiating. I’m picking a week, claiming it like stolen treasure, and letting the chaos sort itself out.

But until that escape hatch opens? I'm ending this week with a monster rare one — the kind of record that doesn’t just hide, it taunts. A 45 so scarce it probably travels under an alias, has a criminal record and travels with security. The sort of slab that slides out of its sleeve like, “You survived this week? Prove it.”  Perfect for closing out a week that tried to take me down hard, swung with everything it had, and still watched me walk away with full resilience and a record that practically growls.

The Righteous Brothers - This Little Girl Of Mine/If You're Lying You'll Be Crying

I woke up today needing a raver. I woke up and realized the whole damn house is grieving in its own weird choreography. Princess Rian has turned the window sill into her private shrine, staring out like she’s waiting for a sign from the universe or maybe just a bird dumb enough to land close. KC is sitting in a hallway chair he never sits in — which feels like the feline equivalent of wearing black to a funeral. Lilli is glued to the Princess like emotional Velcro. Meep Meep is still bouncing around, but even she’s got that distant, “I’m pretending everything’s normal but it’s not” vibe.

And me? I’m pacing around like a raver who lost the beat. I need the lights, the pulse, the sweat, the release — something to shake the grief loose before it calcifies.

They all look at me with those big, impossible eyes, like they’re asking, Why? And I don’t have a good answer. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m being human. Maybe I’m just tired of the universe handing me loss like it’s dealing cards in a rigged game.

Eight years since my dad. Then my mother‑in‑law. Then Bentley — sweet Bentley, whose picture used to sit right here on this blog like a little guardian.Then five cats. Five. And now Tazzie.

People say grief comes in waves. Mine feels like it’s been high tide for eight years.

I don’t think Tazzie is unlocking old grief — I’ve done that work, sat with each loss, let it hurt, let it heal. This one is different. This one is braided into everything else — the house repairs that keep multiplying like gremlins, the job that pulls me in every direction except the one where I can breathe, the world that feels like it’s spinning off its axis, the financial chaos that makes retirement look like a mirage I can see but not touch.

And here I am, writing for relief, and somehow depressing myself further. Classic me. But I laugh anyway — because if I don’t, I’ll sink.

I think about my Pop all the time. I’ll be doing something mundane — fixing something, walking Cooper, sorting records — and he’ll just show up in my head like he’s checking in. And my mother‑in‑law, who absolutely did not always like me, but still managed to deliver one of the funniest lines of her life when she asked when we were coming to see her and it was 6 months in to the Covid crisis and I said we couldn't travel because of Covid and she said: “Oh that is just a bullshit excuse.” I swear she said it with Olympic‑level conviction.

My wife says our pets will see us in Heaven. I believe, and I like the idea of getting smothered by all those dog and cat kisses. Bentley, Charlie Brown, Sara and Roxy barreling toward me. Tazzie curling up in my lap again. Julian doing whatever mischievous thing he’d do. A reunion of all the souls who made this house feel alive.

And maybe that’s the raver I need today — not the neon lights, but the reminder that love doesn’t vanish. It just changes rooms.

Clarence "Frogman" Henry - You Can't Hide A Tear/ I Told My Pillow

The whole house felt different yesterday — like the air itself paused. Princess Rian sitting in the window all day over the spot that Tazzie spent her last few weeks… that wasn’t just a cat staring outside. That was a sister keeping vigil. She chose Tazzie’s place, the way grief chooses the places that still smell like someone we miss. Cats don’t perform emotion; they just feel it, and she felt it deeply.

I spent some time yesterday reflecting…yes, reflecting over a cat, with my memories wrapped in warmth:

Tazzie’s story didn’t start in a quiet home — it started in Mina’s wild little kingdom. Mina, our rebellious queen of the outdoors, bringing her four babies on the patio like, “Hello, we are home.” Four tiny chaos beans tumbling around, chasing shadows, ignoring the perfectly good cat house I bought and assembled for them like a responsible adult. They chose the patio because of course cats always pick the thing you didn’t buy.

Then the disappearances. Two yellow tabbies gone overnight, like they slipped into another dimension. Princess Rian up a tree with two dogs plotting her downfall and me to the rescue. Mina furious at a weeklong indoor captivity after I captured her and had her fixed and me watching over the remaining two like a worried dad who pretends he’s not worried.

And then in May 2022 — the month everything changed. Cooper arrives, a puppy with the energy of a malfunctioning wind-up toy. Tazzie and Princess Rian watching him sprint around the yard like he’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy. Cooper watching them like they’re magical woodland creatures. All three of them were probably born on the same day, destined to be this strange little trio.

In June 2022 I finally brought the girls inside, Princess Rian became the world’s most committed hider. Under the bed. Under the treadmill. Under anything that could hide a princess. Tazzie, meanwhile, stayed quiet, observant, a little fragile. Infections as a kitten, a body that always needed a little extra care.

And then a few days later came, Bobbi -now Meep Meep — the chaos agent who named herself (story to come) arriving like a tiny lightning bolt. She and Tazzie playing, chasing, mischievous, nudging Princess Rian out of her shell, turning her into the social butterfly she eventually became. Tazzie stayed the watcher, the quiet one, the tender one, and now the skittish one. The one who didn’t demand love but soaked it in when it came.

She had a small life in some ways — gentle, careful, observant — but she had a full life. Loved by all, loved by her sister, loved by Cooper, loved by the whole house. And yesterday, the house remembered with continued tears.

Carl Phillips - Salty Dog Blues / Summer Vacation

The house feels different now. I keep catching myself looking toward the hallway in the evenings, expecting to see Tazzie stretched out in her usual spot — that little queen-of-the-corridor pose she always took when she knew treats were coming. It’s strange how quickly a routine becomes a heartbeat in a home, and how sharply you feel it when it stops.

Over the weekend, when her abdomen looked wrong and she wouldn’t eat, I tried not to panic. But I knew. And yesterday morning, sitting in that vet’s office, hearing “likely FIP,” hearing the cost, hearing the lack of guarantees… it felt like the world dropped out from under me. Four and a half. Too young. Too sudden. Too cruel.

She was always a little skittish — sweet, but selective. She had her rotation of secret hideouts, claiming one corner of the house like a tiny landlord for a few weeks before moving on to the next. But when I sat on the floor to give treats, she’d come right into my lap. That was her softness, the part she didn’t show everyone.

Holding her that last time… she purred. She never purred like that in moments like this. I think she knew. I think she was telling me she felt safe. And I think the other cats knew too — the way they moved around the house yesterday, the way the energy shifted. Animals understand more than we ever give them credit for.

Even Cooper had his own little ritual with her. Every night, when I took him out, he’d run up to her and give her that big goofy lick on the top of her head. She’d tolerate it — barely — with that “ugh, dog slobber” expression, but she always let him. It was their weird little bond, even if she preferred her twin sister Princess Rian’s company.

Now the hallway is empty. Her spots are empty. And I feel it everywhere.

It’s wild how animals work their way into your heart — how they become part of the architecture of your days. Losing them is never small. It’s never simple. And she will be missed. Not just as one of the cats. As Tazzie. As herself.

Bobby And The Blue Denims - Stop and Go

Wicked cool instrumental from Bobby and the Blue Denims? Buddy, this thing doesn’t just sound cool — it leans against the wall in a Levi jacket, smirks, and asks if you’ve got a light.

I’m picturing the whole band rolling into the studio like a denim‑clad biker gang of musicians. Jackets faded from actual life experience, guitars slung over shoulders like they’re about to duel, sax player strolling in with that “I only play riffs that make people raise an eyebrow” confidence. Cigarette dangling, not even lit — just there for aesthetic purposes, like a prop in a noir film.

They don’t ask where to set up. They announce it by plugging in wherever they feel like. The rhythm section kicks in with that “we’ve been doing this since the Eisenhower administration” authority. The guitar starts grooving like it’s trying to flirt with the mixing board. And the sax player? He blows a simple riff that somehow feels like a threat, a promise, and a pickup line all at once.

It’s pure attitude — the kind of track that doesn’t walk into a room, it struts.

The Scott Sisters - Down On My Knees/I Don't Know Why

Some Modern Soul Gospel for this fine Sunday morning. This single was the second of three 45s these sisters released, and then the world heard nothing more from them — which is a genuine loss. An internet search turns up almost nothing; one deep‑dive even described them as belonging to “an era of ghost histories in American Gospel.”

During that search, Google noted that “During the 1960s and 1970s, hundreds of local church ensembles and sibling groups pressed private, small‑batch 45 RPM singles. Because these were distributed strictly to church congregations or sold directly from the stage, personal details like their given first names, exact birth dates, and occupations were never documented by music journalists.”

The label may be modest, but the music is not. These songs are magnificent — the kind of work that deserved a wider world than the one it reached.

Rising Suns - Concentration / Land of 1000 Dances

I picked this one up in that small find I wrote about last month — the one where my friend gave me directions so bad I’m still convinced he was trying to send me into a cornfield or a portal to 1973. Somehow, despite his “expert” guidance (“turn left at the mailbox that used to be there”), I actually found the yard sale and the stack of 45s. And not just one — two copies of this bad boy. This one with nice labels, one with label damage, like it had survived a minor bar fight. Classic yard‑sale energy.

I knew it was going to be a good one. “Concentration” hits that moody garage sweet spot — the kind where the band sounds like they recorded it in a basement lit by one flickering bulb that looked ready to give up at any moment, like even the electricity wasn’t sure the band would make it through the take. Then they flip the script and do a rave‑up version of Land of 1000 Dances, because apparently they woke up that morning and chose chaos.

The Cogs of Dis write‑up? Oh, it’s a whole novella. These guys were originally from Topeka, Kansas, touring as the Rising Suns, until fate said, “Nope,” and they had a bus accident so catastrophic it wiped out everything: transportation, instruments, sound equipment, stage clothes — probably even the drummer’s emergency stash of “you know what”.

They disbanded on the spot, which honestly feels fair. If the universe deletes your entire band in one swoop, you take the hint.  But the management company? Oh, they said, “We have shows booked, we are NOT losing deposits,” and immediately hired another Kansas band, slapped the name Rising Suns on them, and sent them back on the road like nothing happened.

They are considered to be one of the Midwest’s first interracial soul bands — fronted by “Big” Walter Downing (brother of "Big" Al Downing and Izzy Martin. And here’s the kicker: They toured until 1972. On the strength of a live show as they only had one 45. One. Single. Record. That’s not a career — that’s a magic trick.

After the dust settled, several members went on to join The Undisputed Truth, because apparently the Rising Suns pipeline leads directly into psychedelic soul.

Then in 2007, both versions — the OG Rising Sons and the replacement Rising Suns — were inducted into the Kansas Music Hall of Fame, which is honestly the most Kansas thing ever. “You know what? Everyone gets a trophy.”

And now I’ve got two of their probably 500‑pressed little artifacts sitting in my collection like a tiny piece of garage soul mythology.

Bobby Freeman - Everybody's Got A Hang Up / Oughta Be A Law

The Bobby Freeman songs I grew up hearing on the radio were the big, shiny, respectable Top 10 hits — Do You Want to Dance and C’mon and Swim — the ones that get invited to weddings and grocery‑store playlists. But you never hear this funky little troublemaker. And of course it’s a raver, because Bobby didn’t really do “subtle.”

Everybody’s Got a Hang Up managed to claw its way up to #122 on the Bubbling Under chart, which is basically the musical equivalent of being told, “We like your enthusiasm, kid, but you’re not getting into the club tonight.” And the B‑side? Oughta Be a Law — which feels like Bobby himself filing a complaint with the chart police about that #122 placement.

I picked this one up about a year ago and, in classic fashion, am just now getting around to spinning it. Bobby, meanwhile, moved from record label to record label with the frequency most of us change underwear — though honestly, Bobby might’ve changed labels more often.

I posted one of his other 45s before — probably my favorite — and I found that one in one of the most magnificent buys of my entire vinyl‑hoarding career. The kind of score that makes you feel like the universe briefly smiled at you and said, “Here, champ. You earned this.”

And yes… I am overdue for another big score. The vinyl gods know it. Cooper knows it. Even Princess Rian probably knows it.

Lynn Hope - Body And Soul/Sands of The Sahara

The morning ritual: Cooper drags you through the muggy streets like he’s training for the Iditarod, you shower off the humidity, slam enough coffee to wake the ancestors, and settle in for a little Lynn Hope detective work.

Before the detective work, it’s the spinning that’s the first step — the sacred initiation rite of the record‑obsessed. Picking up an early King 45 is basically spinning a musical roulette wheel: will it be R&B? A country hillbilly bopper? Jazz? A novelty record about “Mussolini Laid His Pistol Down?" Who knows! King Records was chaos with a catalog number. I honestly was expecting a female country singer named Lynn… and the record basically stood up, adjusted its turban, and said, “Absolutely not.” That’s the King Records experience in a nutshell. 

Sometimes you just need some sweet jazz — the kind that slides into your morning like it’s wearing silk pajamas and refusing to hurry. So when the A side turned out to be slow‑burn sax bliss, it felt like winning the vinyl lottery. That syrupy early‑jazz tone? Pure velvet. It drifted right into the same emotional neighborhood as Say It (Over and Over Again) — my favorite Coltrane track from “Ballads” and the sonic equivalent of staring out a rainy window while contemplating your choices for today.

The B‑side didn’t just play — it transported. One second you’re flipping a King 45, the next you’re drifting into a dreamlike trance where Lynn Hope is gliding into camp after a long trek across the Sahara, perched atop a camel who’s clearly tired of his nonsense. The air shimmers, the sand glows, and Lynn — turban immaculate, sax slung like a talisman — is greeted by a harem that’s been waiting all afternoon, lounging like they’re in a perfume commercial that never aired because it was too sultry for television.

It’s the kind of scene that only late 50's & early 60's King jazz can conjure: half fantasy, half folklore, all saxophone‑induced mirage. The music doesn’t just play; it summons. And suddenly you’re thinking, “Yeah, this tracks. This is exactly the energy of a man who wore a turban on stage and then vanished into spiritual devotion.”

And Lynn Hope… invisible and disappearing like a genie — the kind who doesn’t bother with lamps, just vanishes in a puff of saxophone smoke. One minute he’s drifting through the B‑side like he’s serenading the desert moon, the next he’s gone, slipping out of the music business with the same elegance he slipped into a turban. No scandal, no dramatic or public exit — just poof, gone. It’s the perfect exit for a man whose tone already sounded half‑mythical: poof, no more touring, no more King Records roulette, just a quiet fade into faith and mystery. Lynn Hope didn’t bow out — he evaporated. He slipped out of the music world the same way his sax lines slipped through a room: smooth, unannounced, and leaving you wondering if he’d ever been there at all.

Turns out he converted to Islam in the 1940s and later taught the Quran in a Philadelphia mosque, which honestly feels like the most dignified “I’m done with this industry” move imaginable. No press release, no farewell tour, no dramatic last‑album‑that‑nobody‑asked‑for — just a man deciding he’d rather trade nightclub smoke for spiritual clarity. It’s the kind of exit that makes you respect him even more: Lynn Hope didn’t quit music, he ascended out of it.

Tobin Sprout - Let Go Of My Beautiful Balloon /Shirley The Rainbow

Tobin Sprout might be the unheralded silent champion of early Guided By Voices — the guy in the corner quietly painting masterpieces while Pollard is duct‑taping microphones to ceiling fans and inventing new genres by accident. And as I’ve said before, I really need to share more GBV around here. If you know (and like) Guided By Voices, then you already get it: that magical, simple, lo‑fi clatter that sounds like it was recorded in a basement, a garage, and possibly a broom closet at the same time. What a band. They have never disappointed me — not once, not even on the weird releases with cover art that looks like a ransom note.

Tobin was part of the early incarnation, really stepping into the spotlight around Propeller and Vampires on Titus. And of course his contributions to Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes are nothing to sneeze at — unless you’re allergic to brilliance. When the original group disbanded, he dropped some solo releases that are genuinely wonderful (and yes, I only have promo CDs, not vinyl, which is a situation I need to rectify before the Vinyl Gods smite me).

He came back for the reunion run, stuck around for four years, and then — in true GBV fashion — the original group disbanded again like a garage‑rock version of Groundhog Day.

What’s consistent, though, is Tobin’s melodic sense and those unmistakable vocal stylings. This 45 proves it. Let Go of My Beautiful Balloon floats along with that lo‑fi simplicity: the strumming, the vocals, the “we recorded this with whatever was within arm’s reach” charm. It’s refreshing — a palate cleanser in a world obsessed with bombastic overproduction and plugins that cost more than my first car.

Sometimes you just need something simple, honest, and a little scruffy around the edges. Tobin’s always been great at that.

Billy Crash Craddock with The Blue Notes- Birddoggin/Millionaire

I think this is officially The Week to Catch up, because I’ve started dozens of posts with pictures, sounds, vibes, and good intentions… and then promptly abandoned them like stray socks behind the dryer. I have so many unfinished posts that they’re starting to get buried like the Sphinx — majestic, mysterious, and absolutely covered in metaphorical sand. I scroll endlessly through the digital desert, discovering half-written drafts like ancient artifacts: “Oh look, a post I started in May. How quaint.” All I need now are the words — you know, the part that keeps you, my faithful followers, entertained with my gloriously irrelevant musings.

Today’s excavation brings forth another North Carolina 45, and once again, one I had zero awareness of. Enter Billy “Crash” Craddock — Greensboro’s own, and a man whose name sounds like he should be jumping cars over flaming barrels instead of singing. In the ’50s and ’60s, Billy couldn’t buy a hit in the U.S. if he showed up at the Billboard offices with a suitcase full of cash and a plate of homemade biscuits. The charts took one look at him and said, “No thanks, we’re full — try again after Elvis leaves.”

But hop across the globe to Australia, and suddenly the man was a top charter. Not just “doing okay,” but “the Aussies have decided this guy is their new national treasure.” It’s like America handed him a polite rejection letter while Australia threw him a parade, a surfboard, and possibly a kangaroo. He was huge there — like “teen idol who causes fainting” huge. Meanwhile, back home, he was still stuck in the “please notice me” aisle of the musical supermarket.

It’s one of those great music‑history quirks: sometimes you’re ignored in your own backyard, but halfway around the world, people are losing their minds over you. But then the ’70s rolled in, bell‑bottoms flapped, mustaches thickened, and suddenly Billy became a full‑blown Country Music staple. It was like America collectively woke up one morning, stretched, yawned, and said, “You know what? We do like this guy. Let’s put him everywhere.”

After years of being ignored at home and worshipped in Australia, he finally hit that sweet spot where the U.S. charts stopped playing hard to get. He went from “Who?” to “Oh yeah, that guy!” faster than you can say Grand Ole Opry. By the mid‑’70s, he was basically unavoidable — the kind of artist who’d show up on every jukebox, every radio station, and probably every roadside diner that served coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon.

It’s one of those great music arcs: Ignored→ Exported → Worshipped → Re‑Imported → Beloved. A true American boomerang.

I knew him from childhood road trips, when the parental units insisted on Country Music radio stations. Nothing says “family bonding” like being trapped in the backseat while someone croons Rub It In at you. That one was a #1 hit, as was his cover of Ruby Baby. The man basically took pop and rock songs, marched them over to the Country charts, and said, “Y’all mind if I set up camp here?” And the charts said, “Sure, buddy, pull up a chair.”

But before all that, he started out in the rockabilly trenches — as this 45 proudly demonstrates. It’s always fun when a record reminds you that even the most country-fried artists once had a pompadour dream and a guitar that needed to be slapped around a little.

Mercy- Fire Ball

This song didn’t just surprise me — it detonated. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t warned. No one handed me goggles or a helmet. Mercy, the same band responsible for the extremely polite, extremely well‑behaved Love (Can Make You Happy) — a song so gentle it could be used to soothe anxious houseplants — apparently had a B‑side that throws furniture.

Now, Mercy had two chart singles, and that A‑side hit #2, blocked from the top spot by The Beatles’ Get Back, which is honestly the most Beatles thing ever: “Oh, you wanted a #1? Cute. Good luck with that.” And Mercy still tours with the original lead singer, which is interesting and impressive and also completely irrelevant to the fact that I have owned approximately 47 copies of this 45 and never listened to the B‑side because… why would I? I knew the A‑side. It’s friendly. It’s melodic. It’s the musical equivalent of a warm handshake from a man named Harold.

So, I’m watching an online record auction — you know, the kind where the auctioneer plays a snippet of the 45 like they’re a DJ at a retirement home — and suddenly they play the B‑side. And I’m thinking: “You’re playing the wrong side, champ. Fireball is not the hit. “But then my brain goes: WHAT?! WHAT IS THIS?! WHO SWAPPED THE RECORD WHEN I WASN’T LOOKING?!

Because Fire Ball comes roaring out like Mercy suddenly decided to moonlight as a Psych band that drinks battery acid for breakfast. It’s loud, it’s wild, it’s unhinged — it’s the kind of track that makes you sit up straight and reconsider your entire filing system.

Naturally, I bid. Naturally, I won it for a buck. Naturally, I probably already have ten copies buried somewhere in my boxes, but I wasn’t taking chances. This was a spiritual awakening.

And now it’s filed in my collection, waiting for the day when I leave this earthly plane and some poor soul goes through my records and says: “Why did he keep this sappy Mercy 45 next to The Tamrons?” Flip the 45, buddy. Flip. The. 45.

Capitol City Five -I've Got Jesus / Born Again

I woke up exhausted again, which at this point feels less like a temporary condition and more like my brand. Yesterday didn’t help — I spent the day trying to organize the record rooms and straighten up the attic, which is basically CrossFit for vinyl collectors. Same sweat, same grunting, but instead of kettlebells you’re lifting 45 boxes that mysteriously gain weight every time you move them.

I had one of those hard plastic shelves that was holding on by sheer stubbornness, and I decided to replace it with a metal storage shelf. Naturally, this meant moving half the record room, my turntable setup, and possibly shifting the Earth’s axis. The plan is to stack some 45 boxes on it, plus the printer and modem, because nothing says “home organization” like balancing technology on top of gospel records.

Today, I’m paying for it. My body has filed several complaints.

The sleep situation didn’t help either. My wife needs noise at night, so the TV stays on — and not at a reasonable volume. No, no. It’s always some show where the acting is so bad it feels like the cast is reading cue cards written by someone who’s never met a human. I drift from dreaming about the TV show to waking up and listening to it, like I’m trapped in a low‑budget cinematic universe. If she puts on a biblical movie or documentary, though? Much better dreams. I’ll take ancient prophets over bad drama acting any night.

This morning I was so stiff my hot shower lasted longer than the walk Cooper and I managed. I’m hoping the coffee will finally clock in for its shift and jolt me into existence. That will help me with this week's lesson, which is nearly last week’s lesson continued? Another flea‑market gamble — another Capitol City Five 45. Blessings all around. Honestly, at this point they should send you a loyalty card.

Gasoline Powered Clock - Forest Fire On Main St. (Run, Run, Run)

Brilliant. Absolutely deranged brilliance. You have to admire 1960s bands for naming themselves like they found three random words in a junk drawer and dared fate to make them famous. Gasoline Powered Clock is already fantastic, but if they formed today, some streaming consultant would rename them Solar-Powered Smartwatch, give them a wellness newsletter, and make the drummer explain their brand pillars on a podcast. 

Their song “Forest Fire On Main St. (Run, Run, Run)” is catchy as hell—one of those songs that kicks down your front door, steals your shoes, and somehow convinces you to thank it as you constantly push the repeat button. I’ve seen it called “garage”, I’ve seen it called “soul”, and honestly, it sounds like both genres got into a fistfight while locked in a basement with a fuzz pedal and decided to work things out. The guitar hooks me right away, and the singer has exactly the right voice: urgent, Gary Lewis-ish, and just unpolished enough to make it feel dangerously alive. 

Apparently, this was their only 45, which feels perfect in the most 1960s way possible. Maybe they had one song, one afternoon, and one functioning extension cord, so they shrugged, flipped the tape over, and made the B-side an instrumental because civilization had already asked enough of them. Fair enough. It stands on its own merit, smells faintly of gasoline, and still manages to arrive with both hands full of fire.