The Young Rascals - Lonely Too Long / If You Knew

Yesterday I hit that special level of cynicism where even my coffee looked scared of me. Then it dawned on me: dude… it’s your staycation. You’re supposed to be relaxed, not auditioning for the role of Bitter Man #3. So I did what any self‑respecting record hoarder does when the emotional barometer swings into the red — I reached for some gut‑punch soul‑soothing magic. And who better than The Rascals? Or technically “The Young Rascals,” because apparently even their name had a rebellious phase.

Then I realized these saints of blue‑eyed soul haven’t appeared on this blog in 13 years. Thirteen. Freaking. Years. That’s practically a geological epoch in blog time. No brainer: they’re back.

I’m pretty sure I own every 45 they ever pressed — stock, promo, plus the weird variants that only five people on Earth care about. And when I eventually start collecting pressing‑plant variations, that’s when you’ll know I’ve gone fully over the edge and should be gently escorted to a facility with soft lighting and no sharp corners. Honestly, I shouldn’t even joke about it because… I’m close. Very close. That’s when I’ll officially cross the Rubicon into “needs supervised care.” Until then I will continue to delude myself. It’s fine. Everything’s fine

The The - The Beat(en) Generation

It sure feels like Matt Johnson was either a prophet in 1989 or simply had the good sense to notice how politics works. The lyrics from The Beat(en) Generation are almost disturbingly appropriate: — “By the greedy hands of politics and half‑truths… reared on a diet of prejudice and misinformation” — hit harder now than they did when The The first sang them. You can watch almost any political ad today and see the same formula: a little truth, a little fiction, and a whole lot of confident hand‑waving.

We’re told inflation is down, gas prices are great (except the news report I have heard 5 times this morning already about "surging" gas prices), food costs are lower, tariffs are overflowing with revenue, and the rising cost of living and inflation is just “fake news.” And every time I hear those claims, I find myself wondering Where are these people shopping? Because I’d love to visit. Apparently, there’s a magical supermarket somewhere where groceries cost less, gasoline is practically free, and tariffs are paying everyone’s bills. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the checkout line wondering if my carton of eggs has been upgraded to 24-karat gold, and unfortunately, my grocery receipt doesn’t accept “misinformation” as a payment method.

The frustrating part is that somewhere beneath all the political theater, campaign slogans, carefully polished talking points, and competing versions of reality are actual people trying to pay their bills, buy groceries, fill their cars, and make it through the month.

Maybe instead of endlessly playing the party line, politicians could try something wonderfully radical: working for the people who elected them rather than for themselves, their parties, or the next election cycle. It would be nice if we were not stuck in this endless loop of spin, counter‑spin, and “don’t worry, everything’s fine.” That includes the recent promise of that supposed $5,000 payment to every adult if a certain party wins. I’m a little confused by that one, too. If we have an extra $5,000 lying around for every adult, why does winning an election have to be the prerequisite for giving it away? Is there a giant vault somewhere marked “Money We Were Going to Give You Anyway, But Only If You Vote Correctly”? And frankly, I hope it doesn’t happen. We’re already buried under a national debt that would make a sane person hide under the bed. Giving everyone money we don't actually have sounds less like prosperity and more like putting another credit card in the shredder and congratulating ourselves on being financially responsible.

Of course, they’ll find a way to get it back from us eventually.

Taxes. Fees. Inflation. Tariffs. Some beautifully named “temporary” surcharge that becomes permanent approximately three minutes after we stop paying attention.

Maybe I’m being overly cynical this morning. Then again, perhaps cynicism is what happens when you’ve heard enough promises to know that the fine print is usually hiding somewhere just outside the camera frame. Maybe I’m tired of being told that what I can plainly see with my own eyes isn't actually happening.

I don’t expect politicians to agree with me—or even with each other. But I do wish they would spend a little less time playing the party line and a little more time remembering who actually pays the bill.

Maybe that’s what Johnson was getting at all those years ago.

Or maybe I just need another cup of coffee.

Cynical? Perhaps.
Paying attention? Absolutely.

The Love Notes -- Our Songs of Love/Nancy

I continue my so‑called staycation today — which, let’s be honest, is really just me doing chores in different emotional states — with an early‑60s doo‑wop throwback spinning in the background like I’m trying to summon a simpler era when appliances actually worked and repairmen had functioning brain cells.

I’ve already been to the laundromat this morning, because yes, the repairman came yesterday to install the new part for the washing machine and yes, correct again, it did absolutely nothing. Not a flicker. Not a whimper. Just the same useless, mocking hunk of metal sitting there like, “Oh, you thought I was going to cooperate? That’s amusing.”

I’m trying to stay positive and not unleash an un-biblical storm of profanity, but the man should’ve ordered all the parts he suspected two weeks ago when he first came out. Instead, he decided to play “Guess That Component,” which is a fun game when you’re at a carnival, not when you’re dealing with a washing machine that isn’t even a year old. UGHHHHHHH.

And because the universe enjoys piling on, I’ve also got an early‑morning haircut today, followed by tackling one of the spare bedrooms — both bedrooms have been in a state of post‑remodeling chaos since last September. I keep walking past them thinking, “I should really clean that up,” and then immediately choosing fun life activities instead. They currently look like storage units curated by a hoarders convention.

Meanwhile, this 1963 doo‑wop 45 I’m spinning is fantastic — absolutely fantastic — but it showed up to the party about three years too late. By ’63, the airwaves were already shifting, and this poor little record was out here trying to harmonize its way through a musical landscape that had moved on. Great sound, wrong era. Shame.

Johnny Fortune - Soul Surfer / Midnight Surf

I woke up yesterday feeling like a man with a destiny, a Johnny Fortune so to speak— and that destiny was apparently 120 Black Gospel, soul, and rock 45s from a Baptist Minister’s stash. Marketplace dangled that container in front of me like a carrot, and I, being a simple record‑obsessed creature, lunged for it.

I messaged the guy, he said he was an hour away, and boom — mission accepted. This is where Super Cooper enters the chat.

I looked at him and said, “You wanna go on a car ride?” Buddy… he didn’t just want to go. He activated. He sprinted to his harness like he was auditioning for a Marvel origin story. He vibrated. He wiggled. He dragged me to the Rogue like he had insider intel on the Minister’s collection and needed to secure the goods before the FBI did.

We hit the road. Android Auto, in its infinite wisdom, decided to take me on a scenic tour of Fayetteville’s Wrong Street. Instead of taking me to the seller’s house, it confidently guided me to an abandoned warehouse that looked like the opening shot of a true‑crime documentary. Not even the right street. Not even the right vibe. Cooper stared at the building like it owed him money. I messaged the guy, trying not to sound like someone who was about to be recruited into a cult. He gave me a main cross street, so I headed that way, basically navigating on instinct — a lark, a whim, a “sure, let’s see what happens” approach to geography. And somehow, miraculously, I found his place. Android Auto still insisted I was wrong even while I was physically in the driveway, which is peak Android Auto behavior.

But I got there. I plopped over the cash. Then he hit me with the classic dealer line: “Do you want albums too?”

Sir. You cannot say that to me. That’s like asking a raccoon if it wants more garbage.

He had a small stack — I flipped through and saw Blue Note jazz LPs. My wallet opened itself like a Venus flytrap. Extra money handed over. Cooper supervised the transaction like a dog who knows a good deal when he sees one.

Back home, I glanced through the haul. Not as much gospel as I hoped, but plenty of interesting 45s — Who can argue when a white‑label Chuck Berry on Chess is staring you in the face? The 45s were absolutely worth the price.

So feeling pleased with my self, I am sharing Johnny “Sudetta” Fortune, who apparently put out more 45s than I put out excuses for not organizing my collection. This one was his big regional hit, and he did a ton of session work. But honestly? Even if the music was just him sneezing rhythmically, that label design alone is worth framing.

The Louvin Brothers - The Family Who Prays/I Love Gods' Way of Living/Born Again/If We Forget God

Talk about a 360. I know — you’re probably looking at this post like, “This is not a Peacock 45 or some obscure black gospel gem you dragged out of the crates.” And you’re right. But here’s the thing I don’t always admit out loud: I’ve got a soft spot for the Louvin Brothers. And not just a casual appreciation — I mean the kind where you see a Louvin record in the wild and your hand grabs it before your brain even checks the price.

Last year I scored a copy of Satan Is Real, and that cover… good grief. It’s iconic, it’s ridiculous, it’s frightening, and it’s perfect. It looks like a Sunday school fever dream staged by two men who absolutely believed every word they were singing — even when one of them was living like the devil had him on retainer.

To me, the Louvin Brothers are the epitome of the human condition in relation to faith — messy, contradictory, hopeful, and tragic. I know not everyone believes in GOD, or at least not the Christian GOD I believe in. Free will means everyone gets to choose their own road. But I’ve noticed something over the years: non‑believers seem to relish it when a believer stumbles. Like it’s proof that faith is a costume instead of a compass.

But stumbling is the human condition. We’re not perfect. We can’t be perfect. We fail — sometimes spectacularly — and yet faith doesn’t evaporate just because we fall short of the ideal. If anything, faith becomes more real in the falling.

Ira Louvin is the perfect example of that contradiction. I genuinely believe he had faith — deep faith — but he also lived the kind of life that makes you wonder if he had an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, both screaming directions at the same time. Married four times. Heavy drinker. Womanizer. A volcanic temper that could melt steel. Shot six times by his third wife after beating her and trying to strangle her. It’s safe to say Ira wasn’t exactly living the gospel he sang.

So was he saved? Was he pretending? Or was he just a man caught in the eternal tug‑of‑war between the better angels of our nature and the darker corners we don’t like to admit exist? That’s the psychological battle we all face — what shapes us, what breaks us, what we carry, and what we never outrun. Ira wasn’t just a musician or a cautionary tale; he was a man writing songs about heaven while sprinting toward hell with a gas can in his hand. And honestly, that contradiction feels painfully human.

Here’s a thought: Ira wasn’t writing those songs to prove he was righteous — he was writing them because he knew he wasn’t. People who struggle the hardest often turn their hymns into confessions. Gospel harmonies become lifelines thrown from a sinking boat.

Ira’s songs sound like a man who wanted to change but didn’t know how to stop being himself. That’s what hits me in the chest — the idea that someone can hold deep faith and deep flaws at the same time. That someone can sing about heaven while wrestling with every earthly demon. That someone can believe in GOD with all their heart and still fall short in ways that make people shake their heads. That’s the human condition. That’s the tug‑of‑war we all feel, even if our battles aren’t as dramatic as Ira’s.

Ira died the way he lived — in chaos and irony. A drunk driver hit him and his wife on the way to a show. Too on the nose to be real, but that’s life: messy, unfair, poetic in the worst ways.

And then there’s Charlie. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the exhaustion of watching someone you love self‑destruct. The way their partnership ended not because the music failed, but because Ira couldn’t outrun his own shadow. I read that Charlie spent his final years letting go of the long‑held resentment toward Ira, finding peace through age, faith, and reflection.

So I wonder if they met again — on that heavenly plane, in some place where the noise of this world finally quiets. I like to imagine Charlie seeing Ira not as the man who hurt people, or drank too much, or burned every bridge he crossed… but as the brother whose voice once matched his perfectly. The brother who tried. The brother who sang about salvation even when he couldn’t find it.

I like to imagine GOD saying, “You two have done enough hurting. Now heal.”

And maybe that’s sentimental. Maybe it’s naïve. But faith itself is a kind of hope — the belief that broken things can be mended, that lost people can be found, that brothers can reconcile in ways they never managed on earth.

But I will hold onto this thought: despite all the darkness, all the contradictions, all the human wreckage, the music remains good. Charlie and Ira gave us something beautiful, something honest, something that still resonates long after the needle lifts.

Life is a struggle. Faith is a struggle. Being human is a struggle. But the music? The music is the part that survives.

The Canadian Rogues– Run And Hide / Love And Dreams

I picked up this absolute monster a few years back — right here locally, which still feels like spotting a moose in a Walmart parking lot. The Canadian Rogues. From Lakeland, Florida. It’s the kind of geographical plot twist that makes me wonder if the universe is just messing with me for sport. Perfect, honestly, because if you’ve ever been in Florida during winter, you know it turns into a temporary Canadian province. Snowbirds everywhere. You can practically hear the faint echo of “sorry” drifting across the Gulf (of Mexico).

And I do wonder — with the current bullshit arena we’re all watching unfold — whether Florida’s getting boycotted by the Canadian snowbirds. I picture them holding emergency meetings: “Okay, lads, we’re skipping Florida this year. Too spicy. We’re going to… Jamaica.” Then they all nod solemnly and eat Timbits.

Anyway — flashback to Clearwater, ten years ago, when I was down there taking care of my mother‑in‑law’s place. I wandered into this record store that looked like it had been hit by a 45‑rpm tornado. Boxes everywhere. Stacks. Piles. Geological layers of vinyl sediment. And there’s this guy — list in hand — hunting obscure doo‑wop like he’s on a government mission. From Canada, of course. Wintering in Florida. Naturally. The ecosystem is consistent.

This Canadian Rogues 45? Fantastic two‑sider. First Paris Tower label I ever found. And you KNOW I’m a sucker for extras —pictures, flyers, weird little promo writeups, anything that looks like it was photocopied in 1965 by a guy named Earl. I live for that stuff.

So here’s the plan for my Saturday: I am going to relish the start of my vacation like a man who has earned it through sheer stubbornness. Sure, I’ll have to work a few hours during the week — because apparently, I enjoy punishing myself — but mostly it’s going to be me, the computer, a stack of 45s, and the sweet hum of digitizing songs like some kind of vinyl‑powered monk.

And then? Colorado game prep. Manifesting a big beatdown so we can be 2–0, baby. Sko Buffs. I want the kind of victory that makes the opposing team question their sport choices and maybe take up pottery.

Isley Brothers - Take Some Time Out For Love/Just Ain't Enough Love

I think it is important to take a moment on this date — Friday, September 11th — to sit with the weight of what happened twenty‑five years ago. Hard to believe it’s been that long, because the memory still feels sharp enough to cut. I was a Case Manager then, heading out for a home visit with one of my more… let’s say “character‑building” families. NPR was on in the car, and I remember the broadcast shifting from routine morning chatter into something jagged and unreal. Confusion, chaos, disbelief — all of it hitting at once.

By the time I got back to the office, we were glued to the TV like it was the only anchor left in the room. The whole day felt suspended, like time had stopped but somehow kept hurting anyway.

And yet — because life insists on being strange and layered — I can go from that somber memory straight into talking about how a promo 60s Tamla/Motown 45 can jolt my bloodstream before the needle even touches the groove. There’s something electric about those labels, those fonts, that era. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the world’s biggest Motown/Tamla collector, but I think it’s because my brain can’t help comparing the giants to the overlooked gems.

You look at the Supremes racking up hit after hit, and then you think about the songs that slipped through the cracks — like that Vala Reegan 45 I posted, which is still one of my all‑time favorites. It’s wild how something so good can be ignored while the spotlight blasts elsewhere.

And then there are the Isley Brothers, who just kept cranking out classics like it was a bodily function. They’re in that Hall of Shame — the one where legendary artists get overshadowed while lesser acts somehow skate by with more recognition. It’s maddening, but also part of the charm of digging: finding the brilliance history forgot to underline. This time the Hall got it right!

So on this day, let the emotional weight of those tragic events twenty‑five years ago settle where it needs to — and be comforted, even if only slightly, by the spirit, the soul, and the strange healing properties of music. Because if anything has ever known how to hold grief without dropping it, it’s a record spinning in a quiet room.

The Tiaras - I'm Gonna Forget You/You Told Me

I slept maybe… three minutes last night. Or this morning. Or in some alternate timeline where I’m a well‑rested adult who makes good choices. But no — I was still wired from yesterday’s fast‑paced chaos, the kind of day where your brain forgets how to shut off and instead just hums like a malfunctioning fluorescent light.

So I start yesterday morning by doing something responsible: heading to Lowe’s to return a water filter for my refrigerator they claimed would fit but was the wrong one of course. Great. Adulting. Gold star. Then I decide — on a lark, because of course — to swing by a thrift store on the way to the doctor. And this is where the universe says, “Oh, you wanted peace today? Cute.”

I’ve neglected this particular thrift store for a year because it’s an hour away and historically has offered me zero 45s and maximum disappointment. But it’s only open Wednesday and Saturday, and I did schedule my doctor appointment for Wednesday like a man with a plan, so in I go.

I walk to the media section. Same long cabinet of albums as last year. Packed tight. I remember the dismal selection. I sigh. I look right — and see crates upon crates upon crates (times twelve) of albums. My hopes rise… then immediately face‑plant when I realize they’re all classical. Thousands of classical and white gospel LPs, the kind that will outlive the sun.

I’m thinking, “Well, at least I’ll be early for my appointment,” when suddenly — there they are. Piles. And piles. And piles. Of 45s.

My inner Frank Zappa screams “GREAT GOOGALIMOOGLY!”

I drop to the floor like a pilgrim reaching the holy land. (Don’t judge me. If you dig 45s standing up, you’re either lying or have knees made of titanium.) I open a 45 carrier — promos. Soul, country, rock. Boom. I start making a pile like an uncaffeinated pirate in a treasure chest.

Then I check my watch. And curse. Loudly. I’m out of time. I grab what I can, hustle to the front, and of course the clerk is chatting leisurely with two customers who have nowhere to be. I’m vibrating with urgency. I’m going to be late. I’ve counted the 54 records so she doesn’t have to. She finally rings me up — a buck apiece — and casually mentions LPs are now $5 because “a guy who KNOWS records” comes in. Fantastic. Enjoy your eternal mountain of classical LPs, my friend.

I pay, channel my inner Arnold Schwarzenegger, and tell her “I’ll be back.”

I speed to the doctor, make it on time, and immediately remember I haven’t had coffee or food. I have a headache the size of Delaware. Damn 10 a.m. fasting appointments. As soon as I’m free, I beeline to Royal Farms for a giant coffee and a coffee cake, the breakfast of champions who are barely holding it together.

I hit one more shop on the way back — find a cool psych 45 for a buck — then return to the thrift store and pull 27 more 45s from the vinyl vortex.

Lunch happens. CEU call happens. I drive home with the enthusiasm of a man who has both caffeine and new records.

Once home, I repair my ultrasonic cleaner — and let me tell you, take pictures before replacing motherboards. Their instructions were fine, but my photos saved me from turning the machine into a very expensive paperweight. It works like a charm, and I immediately give a Northern Soul banger the spa treatment.

And now here I am, writing a dissertation at 2:30am before I’ve even started the coffee pot.

So happy Girl Group Thursday — today’s spotlight: The Tiara’s, a California trio who dropped two 45s on Valiant before disappearing into the great mist of musical obscurity.

Johnny Day and the Rhythm Boys - Take My Hand, Take My Heart/Memories of Your Love

I woke up this morning like a man who’d been unplugged from the wall overnight. No coffee. No aroma. No brain‑tickle. Just me, fasting, staring at the coffee pot like it’s an ex who moved on too quickly. The smell alone usually flips the breaker in my skull and powers everything back on, but today? Today coffee was a myth. A rumor. A shimmering mirage in the desert of my kitchen.

And because my brain was running on fumes and spite, I reached for some obscure country 45 — the kind where you squint at the label hoping it’s actually some wild rockabilly burner disguised under a cowboy hat. It wasn’t. But it was still pretty good. And honestly, where else are you going to stumble across this kind of weird, dusty gem unless you’re following me like a vinyl‑obsessed cryptid tracker?

Soon I’ve gotta hit the road for the doctor appointment, which means the majority of my morning will be spent driving, pretending the CEU call is riveting, and plotting small obscure shops to hit for a little crate digging. Maybe a little “I deserve this” record‑store victory lap. And absolutely — ABSOLUTELY — that first cup of coffee after the 10am test. The one that’s going to hit my bloodstream like a revival tent miracle.

Leonard Wayne and the Impacts - That's All I Want To Do / You Didn't Have To Laugh

Back to work, baby — and nothing gets my brain firing on all cylinders like dropping the needle on some sweet, obscure wax while I pretend, I’m a highly organized adult with a functioning schedule.

So here I am, easing into this short work week like a man who’s already halfway out the door. Tomorrow is going to be a whole cinematic experience. I’m off for a doctor’s appointment — and not the quick “in‑and‑out, here’s a sticker” kind. No, I’ve got the deluxe package: a 75‑mile drive, a needle poke, a couple scans, and then, because I’m me, the sacred ritual of crate digging as a reward for surviving modern medicine. Honestly, it’s the most accurate snapshot of my life: Wake up → drive forever → get poked → get scanned → immediately look for obscure 45s like a Pacman who only eats vinyl. It’s glamorous in the way only my version of glamorous can be.

Of course, tomorrow also comes with the CEU call — the kind you have to listen to in the truck while driving back from the doctor, nodding along like “yes, absolutely, very important information,” even though you’re really thinking about lunch. But hey, free CEUs? I’ll take those as I’m a responsible professional!

Thursday and Friday work days are stacked like a pair of overstuffed jukeboxes. After that? Next week is mine. A well‑deserved rest. A spiritual reset. A chance to remember what silence sounds like but silence is absolutely not on the menu — not when I’ve got the new Dinosaur Jr album queued up and ready to blast at full Spinal Tap 11, the setting reserved for moments of deep reflection, emotional clarity, and rattling the drywall.

Now, the soundtrack to this fine Tuesday: Leonard Wayne And The Impacts. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and the Hi‑Tones. Or maybe Leonard Wayne and whoever happened to be standing in the studio that day. The release history is murkier than a thrift‑store mystery box, but the 45 itself? Absolute fire.

“That’s All I Want To Do” and “You Didn’t Have To Laugh” — two sides of a record that feel like they were pressed specifically to make my morning better. The version I’ve got is probably the first pressing, based on the scant detective work I’ve done (picture me squinting at matrix numbers like a noir gumshoe). But whatever its lineage, it’s killer. The kind of killer that makes you forget you’re technically supposed to be working.

And speaking of killer — the parts for my ultrasonic record cleaner finally arrived yesterday. Tonight, if the stars align correctly (and if Cooper doesn’t decide he needs emergency attention), I’ll be assembling that thing like a mad scientist building a vinyl‑restoration death ray. If it works, my 45s are about to get spa‑day clean.

But until then? Enjoy this mysterious, punchy, collector‑bait 45, A salute to Tuesday: short week, sweet sounds, mysterious pressings, and the eternal hunt for free CEUs.

Annette - The Monkeys Uncle

A glorious day off — the kind where the dark, the stars and the quarter moon, and the slight breeze hit just right and Super Cooper The Wonder Dog strutted around like he personally negotiated the weather. After our walk (where he led, and I merely followed like his unpaid intern), I did the usual: shower, coffee, pretend I’m a functioning adult.

Then it happened. My distracted brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Hey… what if we went into the spare room and surrounded yourself in 45s?” And like a fool, I listened. Next thing I know, I’m knee‑deep in boxes of 45s, pulling them out like I’m on some archaeological dig for tiny vinyl relics. I swear my world must want to crush me under endless piles of 45s — like a Looney Tunes gag but with more obscure labels and regional pressings.

So now I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by stacks of 45s to clean, play, and “enjoy,” which is code for “rediscover the same records I’ve already rediscovered twelve times.”

Eventually, I became un‑distracted (a rare event when it comes to records) and checked what I’d recorded over the past month for my Monday surf/drag theme. And there it was: Annette Funicello with the Beach Boys.

Instant childhood flashback.

I remember watching that movie as a kid — all those Disney flicks where everything was sunny, wholesome, and slightly weird. The opening credits rolled, Annette and the Beach Boys kicked in, and tiny me thought, This is the greatest song ever recorded by humans. So explain to me how this wasn’t a hit? The Beach Boys were at the top of their game. They could’ve sung the phone book and charted.

Maybe if Buena Vista had slapped “BEACH BOYS” across the sleeve in giant letters instead of pretending they were just some guys Annette found at a beach rental, it might’ve had a chance. But no — Capitol probably pulled their classic “We’re being (oh I wanted to use dirty words) today” routine and buried the credit like it was radioactive.

Annette says “everyday is Valentines,” so consider this my chalk‑candy kiss to you — the kind that tastes like sugar, nostalgia, and a little bit of surf‑rock injustice.

 

Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama - To That Land/A Letter To A Mother's Son

Last night my Fitbit swore I slept like a tranquilized koala, but wearable tech is basically that coworker who confidently gives advice about things they know nothing about. It’s not my body — it’s just a tiny wrist narc collecting data and making bold assumptions about how I “should” feel.

Reality check: I woke up more than an hour before the coffee timer even thought about doing its job. I stayed in bed, grabbed a few extra minutes of actual human sleep, and when the coffee finally kicked off, I got up and got dressed. Cooper looked at me like, “Dude… it’s not even 5 a.m. yet. Seek help.”

But off we went, hitting the sidewalks like two fugitives from the Land of Insomnia. I had Underground Garage on Sirius in my headphones because Coast to Coast AM was deep into one of those topics that makes you question whether the callers have ever interacted with a real human being.

As we walked, my brain tried to drag me down the Negative Nellie Trail — the roof situation, the ultrasonic record cleaner deciding to reenact a Greek tragedy (new parts tomorrow), the washing machine still down with the repair place shrugging like, “Parts? Who knows.” My mind was basically auditioning for the role of “Guy Who Catastrophizes Before Sunrise.”

And then I saw him — a man riding a bicycle way too small for him, balancing a giant trash bag full of clothes on his way to the laundromat. I’ve been to the laundromat recently more times than I want to count, sure, but I went in a car. I know each wash is six bucks. He’s probably spending twenty, then pedaling home like a pack mule.

And suddenly my complaints evaporated. I have shelter. Food. A working dryer. A life full of material comforts and blessings. The roof will get replaced. The machines will get fixed. The chaos will settle. These trials aren’t punishments — they’re reminders. GOD is telling me to trust Him, and I do.

Now, onto today’s musical sermon: The Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama — if you believe the cogs of dis chaos — released only three records, and this one, “To That Land / A Letter To A Mother’s Son,” is the only one under that exact name. The other two came out with slight name variations, and their first record was on Ascot, of all labels — pre‑Manfred Mann era, back when Ascot was still figuring out what it wanted to be when it grew up. And yes, I know this sleeve doesn’t belong with the Peacock 45, but honestly? It looks biblically cool, so it stays.

Tikis & Fabulons - Take A Minute/For Your Love

I’m kicking off this three‑day weekend with a garage raver that hits like it’s been waiting all week for me to drop the needle. Then I flip it over and—of course—the B‑side turns out to be a moody ballad that might be even better. And yes, it’s a cover version, even though we are absolutely not in cover‑version week. Sometimes I have to fudge the rules a little. It’s not like I’m filing shady taxes or doing anything that gets you locked up. It’s just music, and I’m a creature of habit who occasionally wanders off the path for something irresistible.

And look at this label. Panorama. It’s practically shouting, “Observe me from near and far!” It’s one of those cool regional designs that makes you stop and admire it before you even play the record. The song itself is a Portland, Oregon gem that Tower later picked up… and then did absolutely nothing with. No success, no traction, just another great track lost in the shuffle until I pulled it out and gave it a proper spin.

Marvelle Hampton - I Truly Believe (In Love)/I Know How It Feels

I’m running on fumes this morning, — the kind of tired where your soul is still in bed but your body is upright out of sheer contractual obligation. These late‑night football games are gonna be the end of me. I swear the Colorado Buffaloes wait until I’m half‑asleep to pull off something dramatic, just so I can stagger around the next day like a man who’s been through a small emotional war. But hey, they beat Georgia Tech, so I guess I’ll allow it.

No walk for Cooper today — he looked at me like, “Really? We’re skipping my morning patrol?” Meanwhile I'm over here trying to negotiate with my eyelids like they’re free agents demanding a better contract. At least I’ve got that three‑day weekend coming up, which feels like the promised land. I can practically hear my future nap calling out to me like a gospel choir.

So here I sit, clutching my coffee like it’s the last lifeline on Earth, and at the very last minute I decide, “You know what this morning needs? Marvelle Hampton.” And honestly, that’s a power move. Sweet soul sounds to soothe the football‑induced chaos rattling around my skull.

Naturally — in true collector geek fashion — I recorded the B‑side first. It’s the “preferred” side, the one with that secret‑handshake energy. But I realize the A‑side is boss with a capital B, and I'm questioning why I gave in to the soul collectors preference recording order, my sleep schedule, and possibly the entire concept of alphabetical sequencing.

Sandy Waddy - Everything Is Everything/Secret Love

Yesterday was brutally hot -it wasn’t just hot — it was soul‑singer‑in-a-polyester-suit-on-stage hot. The kind of heat that makes the air shimmer like a Hammond organ and leaves me moving slow, like a ballad that refuses to rush. I’m just hoping it cools down by the time my little respite vacation in a week‑and‑a‑half rolls around. I’m not going anywhere fancy (roof fund says “absolutely not”), but honestly, staying home and slipping into some crate digging sounds like the kind of healing my spirit actually needs.

There’s something about flipping through dusty boxes that brings me joy?  Every sleeve is a memory, every label a heartbeat. And nothing lights me up like Girl sounds and soul — and, let’s be real, just about every other style of music too… lol.

Take Sandy, for example. One 45. Just one. It’s wild. She drops this single on Sound Of Soul (S.O.S.), then Wand tries to give it a second life, but the charts don’t budge. Two labels, no breakthrough moment. Just two labels giving it the old college try and the universe shrugging. It’s the kind of story that makes you shake your head — all that heart, all that hope, and the world just wasn’t listening.

 But now? Now the soul collectors know it — or so the internet tells me. And we all know the internet does not lie. Ever. Not once. Completely infallible. Practically a sacred text.

Still, that lone Sandy 45? It’s got that magic. That little spark. That quiet ache. That reminder that sometimes one song is enough to leave a mark. The kind of thing I’d find in a dusty box and immediately feel 12% happier. The kind of record that makes my whole staycation feel musically important.

And speaking of the old college try, my brain is saying "hey it's College Football" season which means I’ve got football on the brain today, and my Colorado Buffaloes are lining up against Georgia Tech tonight. Everywhere I look, the national sports media is acting like this is already GT’s game. They talk about Prime like he’s some kind of sideshow, like the student‑athletes don’t exist, like the work this team has put in somehow doesn’t count.

But I see what they’ve built. I see the talent, the coaching, the discipline, the fire, the focus. I see a team that is being underestimated and we will see if that changes after they leave the field tonight — and I’ve got a damn good feeling about them and about this season.

People are going to be surprised tonight. People are going to learn something about Colorado. And I’m going to be right here for every snap.

SKO BUFFS.

Jim Dickinson and The Catmando Quartet - Monkey Man/Shake'Em On Down

I swear, my Law of Household Appliances is undefeated: if it has a motherboard, it will eventually decide it’s had enough of your nonsense and die dramatically. My Humminguru joined the Great Electronic Exodus this weekend, and from what I can tell, the motherboard just… quit. Clocked out. Took its lunch break and never came back. Exactly like the washing machine. I’m starting to think modern devices are built out of compressed hopes and recycled potato chips.

I reached out to them, and hopefully it won’t cost me much to fix, because nothing reminds you how much you love a machine until you’re suddenly hand‑cleaning records like it’s 1958 and you’re auditioning for a job at Sun Records. I have officially joined the lazy generation, and I’m not going back. If the Humminguru doesn’t revive, I may hold a small memorial service.

Today’s feature: Jim Dickinson, producer extraordinaire, professional name‑drop magnet, and one of those guys whose résumé reads like he accidentally wandered into every major moment in American music history. The first time I saw his name was, of course, tied to Big Star and The Replacements — the gateway drugs for all respectable record nerds. But here he is in his early swamp‑rock‑blues days, fronting the Catmando Quartet before the Dixie Flyers ever existed.

And I learned some things I absolutely did not know. For example: he sang lead and played piano on a 45 by the Jesters on Sun Records even though he wasn’t in the group. Did he just walk in and do it. I have that 45, so expect it to show up here eventually like a guest star in a sitcom crossover episode.

In the 60's he formed the Dixie Flyers, who backed Bettye LaVette, Hank Ballard, James Carr, Albert Collins — basically everyone your record shelves whisper about at night. Then Atlantic Records got involved, and suddenly they’re recording with Aretha, Delaney & Bonnie, Jerry Jeff Walker, Dee Dee Warwick, Ronnie Hawkins, Sam & Dave, Dion, Brook Benton, Lulu, Sam the Sham, Esther Phillips… and oh yeah, Jim even played on Wild Horses with the Rolling Stones. There are documentaries about the Wrecking Crew and Muscle Shoals, but none on the Dixie Flyers, which feels like a crime against music nerd humanity. You can find bits and pieces on Jim on Youtube.

And the name‑dropping doesn’t stop. Dickinson produced Big Star’s Third — the greatest beautiful disaster ever pressed (a stunning record- my go to Big Star record even though it could be technically called an Alex Chilton solo lp and I bought an OG on PVC 30+ years ago for $10..hey, go ME) — but he also produced Willy DeVille, Green on Red, Mojo Nixon, Mudhoney, The Replacements (Pleased to Meet Me, the first Replacements album I bought new), Tav Falco’s Panther Burns, Toots & the Maytals, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. He worked with Ry Cooder, the Flamin’ Groovies, The Cramps, Bob Dylan, Kim Salmon from the Scientists. He even recorded with Sonic Boom from Spacemen 3. Holy smokes, this man was plugged into everything.

But here we have him at the very beginning, trying on the “maybe I could have a hit” version of himself — swampy, gritty, bluesy, and already cooler than any of us will ever be.

Charlie Feathers - One Hand Loose/Bottle To The Baby / Everybody's Lovin My Baby /Can't Hardly Stand it

So there here I am, minding my own business — which, let’s be honest, usually means plotting how to find time to listen to scorchers — when my brain suddenly fired off that old Doublemint gum jingle. You know the one. The twins. The smiles. The aggressively wholesome energy that absolutely did not prepare me for the memory filled unhinged road trip I am about to take.

In the spirit of “double your pleasure,” I figured, fine — let’s double it. Two Charlie Feathers 45s. Two absolute Rockabilly monsters. Two slabs of wax so well‑loved you are happy they play nicely. They don't make vinyl this durable anymore that is for sure.

Now, I can’t remember when as in date I picked them up — the years blur together when you’ve spent all your adult life elbow‑deep in cardboard boxes of 45s — but I remember exactly how I picked them up.

Picture it: 15, maybe 20 years ago. I spot a Craigslist ad from a guy in Rockingham, NC selling records. Rockingham. Two plus hours away. A normal person would’ve said, “Eh, maybe next time.” Me? I make arrangements with the seller, take the next day off and said, “Let me grab my keys.”

But then — plot twist — I see another listing from a woman in Fayetteville which is on the way. She’s got a tub of 45s. A tub. That’s collector catnip. So I arrange to meet her at a Cracker Barrel on the way like it’s some kind of vinyl‑smuggling rendezvous. She pops open her trunk, and boom: A tub full of 45's and since the price was so low I hand over the $ without looking at them and put the tub in the back seat under a blanket. It was summer and I don't want vinyl soup. Later I go through the tub and find these two Charlie Feathers originals are staring at me like they’ve been waiting for me their whole lives.

Well loved. Well played. Well worth the detour.

Then I bought the Rockingham records. Then I took myself on a little roundabout tour of every shop within striking distance because once you’re in the zone, you’re in the zone.

And what I ended up with — what I’m holding here — are, I’m pretty sure, Charlie’s first two King 45s. Everybody’s Lovin’ My Baby. Can’t Hardly Stand It. One Hand Loose. Bottle to the Baby. Artifacts from a time when attitude wasn’t optional — it was the entire point.

These aren’t just records. They’re proof that sometimes the universe rewards your chaos.

One Hand Loose/Bottle To The Baby

 Everybody's Lovin My Baby /Can't Hardly Stand it