Halloween Radio Spots....S s s s s s s" & Young Frankenstein

It's Halloweenie season, peeps, and as is tradition around here, I'm kicking things off by taking a hard left turn into Weirdsville.

I had a few spooky grails on my want list this year, but despite my best efforts, they continue to elude me like a reasonably priced original garage 45 at a flea market. At this point, I've got several years' worth of Halloween posts squirreled away, so if I ever do find those missing monsters, something else is going to get bumped into a future year's lineup. It's becoming less of a Halloween series and more of a haunted scheduling problem.

I picked these up nearly a year ago as part of a larger haul from a guy who occasionally opens up his magical "Wherehouse," a place where records seemingly reproduce in the dark when no one is looking. As luck would have it, I get to go digging there again today. YIPPIEE! Somewhere between the excitement and the caffeine, I've already mentally spent money I haven't handed over yet.

What makes these especially interesting is that they're the first radio spots I've ever found in all my years of collecting. Thousands upon thousands of records have passed through my hands, but radio spots? Practically mythical creatures. Maybe they were hiding behind all the Herb Alpert albums.

Now, these aren't the scariest recordings ever made. Nobody's sleeping with the lights on after hearing them. But they're delightfully oddball, which is often even better.

"SSSSSS... once this picture sinks its fangs into you, you'll never be the same. Touch your skin... it's scaled. Look for your legs... they're gone. Feel your body... it's cold. Listen for the hissing. Don't say it... hiss it."

I mean, come on. How freaking cool is that? It's the kind of gloriously over-the-top copy that makes me miss an era when advertisers apparently thought the best way to sell things was to turn people into reptiles. While not a "horror" movie fan...I do think I want to try to find this one to watch! The movie poster advertisement is AMAZING!

And then there's Mel Brooks. Really, who can resist Mel Brooks? The man could probably record himself reading a lawn fertilizer label and I'd happily sit through it twice.

I've got a few more of these radio spots tucked away, and they're weird enough that they'll probably deserve a future megapost of their own. Because if there's one thing record collecting has taught me, it's that no matter how strange the item in your hand may seem, there's always something even stranger waiting in the next box.

Nova's Nine - Pain/Why Listen

Yesterday I went to the office for the first time in several months. Now, normally that sentence wouldn't qualify as exciting news, but this trip came with a side quest.

About six months ago I stumbled across a little junk shop on a secondary highway and asked the owner if he had any records. His answer was, "They're in storage and I'll try to get to them." Every time I'd stop by after that, I'd get the same answer, usually followed by, "Don't worry, I'll set them aside for you and won't let anyone look before you."

At that point I figured this was one of those promises that would join the ranks of New Year's resolutions, political campaign vows, and my washing machine repair timeline.

So, on my way home at lunchtime, I stopped again and asked if he'd found those records.

"Come with me," he said.

Those are dangerous words for a record collector.

We walked into the shop and he told his daughter, "The guy for the vinyls is here." Apparently I have now achieved a level of local fame where I am known simply as The Guy for the Vinyls.

He pulls back a tablecloth and underneath are milk crates of LPs, plastic totes full of 45s, and a footlocker packed with albums. His daughter says, "We were afraid you weren't coming back." Turns out they had been holding these aside for me for over a month.

The pressure was suddenly on.

I move a few lp's on top of the 1st 45 tote (Andy Williams and Firestone Christmas lp- not promising) and grabbed a handful of 45s from the first tote and the first two 45s I pulled were a Hank Williams MGM EP with the cover and a Johnny Cash Sun EP with its cover, both in surprisingly nice condition.

Before getting too excited, I asked the all-important question:

"How much are you asking?"

Anyone who's dug records long enough knows this is the moment where dreams either soar or get run over by reality.

"You can have them all for $50."

I probably handed over that money faster than a contestant hitting the buzzer on Jeopardy.

At that point I hadn't even looked through any of the boxes. For all I knew the foot locker was fifty pounds of Andy Williams and Firestone Christmas LPs with a few records sprinkled in for decoration. But I like the owner, he buys estates and auction lots regularly, and I wanted him to remember me as a good customer instead of the guy who haggled over fifty bucks.

I didn't have time to dig through everything until after work. One box of 45s turned out to be entirely promos. The Good. Unfortunately, many looked like they'd spent several years in a barn conducting weather research. The Bad. But they were old country, easy listening- The Ugly and that was good news. But in the other totes were some interesting Northern Soul, and a bizarre mix of 1980s rock picture sleeves alongside more Johnny Cash Sun EPs.

The LPs were a mixture of soul and country, easy listening, with many of the lp's in rough shape, but the footlocker held some pleasant surprises: late-'60s and early-'70s white-label promo albums by artists I've never heard of and, best of all, in pretty respectable condition. Those are the records I'm most excited to hear.

Will many of the trashed records be headed to the great recycling bin in the sky? Absolutely.

Did I find enough good stuff to make the deal worthwhile and share some records with friends? Without question- one box had 80s country 45s in wonderful condition and I have a friend who will groove on that.

Meanwhile, on the home front, my washing machine remains very committed to its retirement. The repair company appears to have devoted the same level of urgency to fixing it that sloths devote to NASCAR.

They've allegedly been waiting on a part for over a month. After repeated attempts to get answers that produced roughly the same results as shouting into a well. At one point I was about ready to channel Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction and start reciting the "great vengeance and furious anger" speech, although probably with a few modifications involving appliance repair and customer service. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and I contacted Electrolux directly.

Electrolux asked which part was needed. I told them that getting information from the repair company required skills usually reserved for hostage negotiators and archaeological expeditions. The shop had already informed me they couldn't get the part through Electrolux.

Funny thing about that.

Electrolux contacted them, found out the needed part, and promptly informed me they're shipping it directly to me next week.

So at the moment Electrolux has solved more problems in 24 hours than the repair company has solved in a 3 months. And let's be clear, this isn't exactly an endorsement for Electrolux. When a nine-month-old washer breaks down, we're already well past the point where anyone should be taking a victory lap. Credit where it's due: they stepped in, contacted the repair company, figured out the mystery part that apparently required the investigative skills of Sherlock Holmes to identify, and are sending it directly to me. That's more progress than I'd seen in weeks. Still, I'd much rather be praising a washer for washing clothes than praising a manufacturer for helping me navigate a repair process on an appliance that just celebrated its first birthday and only worked 3/4 of the year.

In the meantime, enjoy this one-off single from a North Carolina band. Some folks call it garage soul. I hear more soul than garage, but either way, nobody has to wait a month for a replacement part to enjoy it.

Jose de la Vega - Ode to A Hijacker / Coffee, Tea or Cuba

A little Latin obscurity that followed me home from the flea market this past summer. The sleeve looks like it lost a bar fight, got run over by a shopping cart, and then spent a decade in someone's attic, but there were two copies of the 45 sitting there, daring me to take a chance. Thankfully, years of record collecting have taught me that sometimes the roughest-looking sleeves hide the best surprises. I rolled the dice and I'm glad I did.

And then came the part that really made me do a double take. One of the co-writers is none other than Dickie Goodman, the undisputed king of the break-in record. Now, when I think of Dickie Goodman, I think of hearing Mr. Jaws on the radio as a kid and all those wonderfully goofy records he cranked out over the years. I've picked up more than a few Goodman 45s in my collecting adventures, but finding his name attached to a Latin record? That was definitely not on my bingo card.

Which naturally raises an even bigger question: Who was Jose?

This appears to be a one-off release, with almost no trail to follow. No obvious history, no stack of follow-up records, no easy answers. Just a mysterious Latin 45, a battered sleeve, Dickie Goodman lurking in the songwriting credits, and a guy named Jose who seems to have vanished into the mist of record-collector mythology. 

Of course, that's part of the fun. If every record came with a complete biography, detailed liner notes, and a Netflix documentary, there'd be a lot less excitement in digging through flea market boxes on a hot summer morning. Sometimes the best records are the ones that leave you with more questions than answers.

For now, Jose remains a mystery. But somewhere out there, I'm convinced at least three people know exactly who he was, and two of them probably can't find their reading glasses.

Over the last few years I've developed a real appreciation for Latin sounds and Boogaloo records, which has also encouraged me to gamble a little more on the oddball, overlooked, and downright mysterious singles. After all, if every purchase made perfect sense, what fun would crate digging be?

And speaking of mysteries, are you ready for Halloween? I've got some wonderfully obscure seasonal oddities lined up that may have been heard by fewer people than have actually read the record labels they were pressed on.

After that, I'll have to dig through the shelves to see what I can uncover for Veterans Day and Thanksgiving. And as for Election Day... let's just say I have a surprise planned. No matter which way the votes go, I can guarantee the song will be far more obscure than any candidate.

L. H. And The Memphis Sounds - Double Up /House Full Of Rooms

I have questions. Lots of questions.

Was L. H. And The Memphis Sounds actually from Memphis, or did they simply borrow the Memphis name because it carried a little extra weight on the Southern soul circuit? Did they pack up a station wagon, point it west, and somehow end up in Hollywood long enough to cut a couple of records for a California label? And when those records didn't launch them into the big time, did they quietly head back home with their tails between their legs?

Or am I being completely unfair here?

Truthfully, I have no idea what I'm talking about. And maybe it doesn't even matter.

What I do know is that "Double Up" and "House Full of Rooms" are two absolutely killer sides.

"Double Up" sounds like someone walked into the studio and announced, "Let's use everything." You've got organ, bluesy guitar, punchy brass, soulful vocals, and just enough saxophone to remind you that nobody was interested in subtlety that day. It shouldn't work as well as it does, but somehow they threw the entire kitchen sink into the pot and let it simmer in pure passion.

Then there's "House Full of Rooms." The slower B-side. The one that sneaks up on you. Soulful, bluesy, and so deep in the groove that before long you're no longer listening to the record, you're living inside it. It doesn't demand attention. It earns it.

That's the beauty of collecting old 45s. Half the time I'm chasing stories that may never be fully answered. The artists disappear, labels come and go, and the trail often goes cold long before Google was invented. But every now and then a forgotten little slab of vinyl reminds me that history isn't always about who made it big. Sometimes it's about two songs that still sound fantastic sixty years later.

The world feels a little brighter every time I drop the needle on a record like this. And honestly, that's reason enough for me to keep digging.

Update Time

Last week I posted The Church Columbus and I thought I had a promo copy of The Church's "Columbus" on 45. As it turns out, my memory was apparently operating on the same level as a worn-out styrene pressing. After a little investigation, I discovered I did not own the promo after all.

Then, as fate, temptation, and collector OCD would have it, I stumbled across a cheap copy online last week. At that point there was really only one possible outcome. Resistance was futile. The order was placed.

The 45 arrived yesterday in beautiful condition and now sits proudly in the collection, proving once again that record collecting is less a hobby and more a series of financially questionable decisions justified by tiny label variations.

I have updated the Columbus post to include the promo copy- say: Thank You.

The 45's -Couldn't Believe A Word

This one has several things going for it right out of the gate. First off, the name. The 45's. As someone whose life has been happily derailed by little seven-inch pieces of vinyl and has devoted an unreasonable amount of shelf space, spare cash, and brain cells to 45s, I feel obligated to support any band that understands my particular vinyl-based affliction.

Then there's the fact that it's on Stiff Records, a label that never seemed interested in following the rules when they could write better ones. They zigged when everyone else zagged. Stiff built a reputation on releasing records that were smart, quirky, and gloriously uninterested in fitting neatly into anyone else's box. This single carries that same spirit.

And then there's the song itself, a catchy little gem that sounds like it was assembled by people who loved hooks and melody. It's got that power-pop punch I can never resist, but what really grabs me is the organ. On paper it feels like a questionable engineering decision. In practice, it works so well that after about thirty seconds your brain simply accepts it and starts filing paperwork declaring it essential.  

Most importantly, this one has earned the highest honor available in this household: Super Cooper the Wonder Dog's Seal of Approval. Granted, his review process mainly involves ear positioning, tail movement, and whether he decides to leave the room, but standards are standards. On this occasion, the verdict was overwhelmingly positive. And really, who am I to argue with such a distinguished canine critic?

If Stiff Records was built on the idea that great music should be clever, fun, and a little eccentric, this 45 proudly carries the company banner

Remember When - Lone Ranger

Here is an oddball 45 and, if I'm being honest, not usually my cup of coffee. I picked it up as part of that massive haul about four years ago and only recently got around to giving it a proper spin. The A-side did absolutely nothing for me, which is exactly why every record collector should follow the sacred commandment: always flip the platter over. Sometimes the treasure is hiding on the side nobody bothered to mention.

Thankfully, that was the case here. The flip side delivers some surprisingly appealing doo-wop flavored sounds, which is not what I expected from a 1988 release. It's like finding a vintage diner jukebox hiding inside a Reagan-era time capsule.

As for the title, I was never much of a Lone Ranger fan. I knew who he was, of course. Much like Lawrence Welk, the Lone Ranger seemed to exist primarily so older generations could ask, "You know who this is, right?" while looking disappointed when you didn't.

What I do remember is the bizarre episode where Clayton Moore, the original Lone Ranger, was sued for appearing in public wearing the Lone Ranger mask. Imagine spending decades becoming synonymous with a character only to be told, "Sorry, you're no longer allowed to be the guy you've been playing your whole life." The lawsuit stemmed from a new Lone Ranger film that was on the horizon. The studio apparently felt there was room for only one masked man on horseback.

The irony, of course, is that the movie ended up riding straight into obscurity while Clayton eventually got the right to wear the mask again. Sometimes the good guys really do win in the end. Meanwhile, this forgotten little 45 has probably provided more entertainment in my house than that movie ever did.

So saddle up, flip the record over, and enjoy a lesson that applies equally to vinyl and life: sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the other side.

The Raiders - Stick Shift/Skipping Around

Back to some surf instrumental sounds for this cold, brisk morning. After two days of weather-related and sleep-deprivation-induced inactivity on my part, Super Cooper the Wonderdog finally got his much-anticipated morning walk. To be fair, neither of us exactly bounded out the door like extras in a dog food commercial, but once I bundled up and accepted my fate, off we went. We didn't skip down the street, but we managed a respectable pace and both returned with our dignity mostly intact.

Today's selection comes courtesy of my friend Jessie. I was all set to buy this one from him, but instead he slipped it into my package for free. That's the kind of generosity that keeps record collectors convinced humanity still has a fighting chance. I'd never come across a Canadian Vee-Jay pressing before, so naturally I had to pair it with a U.S. Vee-Jay sleeve I rescued from a box of orphaned sleeves. Some records find their forever homes. Some sleeves do too.

These Raiders came out of Texas and, if you check cogs of dis, you'll see a "(9)" attached to the band's name. That's what happens when several groups decide that "Raiders" is the perfect band name and nobody bothers to consult future record collectors. Of course, that didn't seem to concern Mark Lindsay's outfit when they shortened their name to simply The Raiders. Once you've had a string of hits, trademark anxiety tends to become someone else's problem. Raiders (9) were active in their local scene and apparently kept busy entertaining Texas audiences, but they never managed to break through on a national level. Fortunately for us crate-diggers, obscurity often makes for the most interesting discoveries. After all, if every record in our collections were hits, digging wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

I've also been busy recording a few other things for the coming week, and the Halloween stash is officially ready to go. In fact, I may have gotten a little carried away. By my calculations, assuming no further acquisitions, no sudden bursts of Halloween enthusiasm, and absolutely no realistic record collector behavior, I probably have enough spooky tunes lined up for the next two years. Of course, we all know that's exactly the sort of prediction that guarantees I'll find another stack of Halloween records by next weekend.

Yvonne Jackson/ John, Ron and Bill - What Could Be Nicer/Another Step Toward Heaven

What a great way to start the day: a 45 that seems to have vanished from recorded history. I've found absolutely no reference to it anywhere, though I'm guessing it may be a Virginia release since Danville appears on the label. Then again, I've been wrong before, usually with great confidence.

Truth be told, I'm cheating a bit with this post. I'm still awake watching the Colorado game, and since Saturday morning's post arrived fashionably late, I figured I'd give Sunday a head start before common sense suggested sleep.

The A-side, What Could Be Nicer featuring Yvonne Jackson, eases you in gently. It's the musical equivalent of a Sunday morning sunrise, calm and reassuring. Then you flip it over to Another Step Toward Heaven and suddenly all restraint leaves the building.

This thing is FIRE.

Apparently the song was so powerful it couldn't be contained by one vocalist. It took three of them, John, Ron, and Bill, to deliver the message. The result is pure electricity. Not the kind currently running up my utility bill, but the sort that leaps out of the speakers like a holy bolt of spiritual lightning. The rhythm crackles, the vocals soar, and before long you're not taking another step toward heaven, you're practically being launched there.

Obscure records are one of life's great blessings. Sometimes you spend years hunting for the rare and celebrated only to have an unknown little 45 appear out of nowhere and remind you that joy, much like grace, often shows up where you least expect it.

So while I should probably be sleeping, instead I'm sitting here marveling at another forgotten gem rescued from obscurity. Maybe that's part of the fun of collecting records: every once in a while you are rewarded for your persistence with a revelation spinning at 45 RPM.

Amen to that.

Game Theory - Nine Lives to Rigel Five/The Red Baron

Good plans have a funny way of going completely off the rails. At 1 a.m., the wind and rain decided to tag-team my cable and internet, knocking both out until about 2:45pm. As a result, Cooper and I missed our walk, which I'm pretty sure he views as a personal betrayal on my part.

Since I suddenly found myself disconnected from the modern world, I headed to the laundromat to wash clothes. Why? Because the washing machine is still waiting on parts from the repair company. Three months. Three Months. At this point I'm convinced the replacement parts are being hand-forged by medieval blacksmiths somewhere in the mountains of Eastern Europe.

What really boggles the mind is that we live in an era where Amazon can parachute a package onto your front porch before you've finished ordering it, yet somehow a washing machine part requires the sort of logistical planning normally associated with a moon landing. Anyway, with laundry drying and my patience on permanent backorder, I decided to salvage the day by driving an hour to the thrift store. As any record collector knows, questionable decisions often lead to excellent discoveries. A little while later I emerged with a mess of 45s, a few albums, lighter in the wallet, heavier in the collection, and still somehow closer to finding obscure 45s than the repair company is to finding a washing machine part.

More deep cuts, this time from Game Theory, which in my mind occupied that rarefied level of college radio known as the underground underground. The band that made even the cool kids seem commercial. The bigger mystery, though, is how I managed to go this long without uploading them to the blog. My organizational system apparently rivals my filing system, which is to say it occasionally resembles a controlled archaeological dig.

During my junior year at Colorado State University, I had a roommate who tolerated my increasingly obsessive musical pursuits. One day we were watching a local music video show and they played Game Theory. That was all it took. I immediately lost my mind and, as was often the case in those years, concluded it was now my destiny to acquire everything Scott Miller had ever touched. Rational financial decisions were quietly escorted from the building.

That collecting impulse continued years later when Omnivore reissued some of the catalog on 10-inch vinyl during a Record Store Day. Naturally, I paid far more than necessary because I was convinced the entire world would soon discover Game Theory and these records would become impossible to find. As it turns out, the entire world failed to consult me before making its purchasing decisions, and now copies can be found for considerably less. Such is the burden of being decades ahead of an imaginary market.

Recently I came across this radio station copy (cheap, I might add very cheap). The cover looks like it survived a minor natural disaster, but it came with the original press release, which immediately overrode all common sense. Normal people saw a beat-up cover. I saw bonus paper ephemera and heard angels singing. Silly geeky me.

And honestly, I miss Scott Miller. Few songwriters could pack so much intelligence, emotion, wit, and humanity into three-minute pop songs. "Nine Lives to Rigel Five" still dazzles with its brainy charm, while "The Red Baron" captures that bittersweet internal tug-of-war that comes with relationships and all the hopes, fears, and self-inflicted complications we bring to them. Decades later, the songs still land. Scott Miller burned bright, left us far too soon, and remains one of those shooting-star songwriters whose brilliance continues to illuminate the corners of the musical universe for those willing to go digging. More Game Theory to follow

Teenage Fanclub - Free Again/Bad Seed

First off, I want to thank everyone who's stopped by and viewed these posts over the past few weeks. The numbers have been noticeably higher than usual, which either means the algorithm briefly took pity on me or there are actually more people out there interested in obscure records than I thought. Both possibilities seem unlikely, yet here we are.

If you're new to the blog, send me a message and let me know what you'd like to hear. I've done viewer requests in the past, although the last few times I opened the floor to suggestions the response was a deafening silence. Zero. Nada. Not even a wildly unrealistic request for a private pressing recorded in a Nebraska grain silo in 1964.

So come on, try to stump the chum. Let's see if I have it hiding somewhere in the collection, or at least something in the same musical neighborhood. After all, record collectors secretly enjoy being challenged almost as much as we enjoy boring innocent civilians with matrix numbers and label variations.

I've got some fun Halloween posts lined up and enough recordings in the can to cover next year, and probably part of the year after that. Naturally, yesterday I remembered another idea I've been meaning to do for ages, which means a perfectly innocent post has now been bumped into the future. My editorial process remains every bit as organized as a box of unsorted garage-sale 45s.

I'm even starting to think about Christmas posts. If the retail world can start celebrating Christmas somewhere around Labor Day, I figure I'm practically behind schedule.

Today's selection presents what feels like a perfect musical marriage: Teenage Fanclub covering songs by Alex Chilton and Beat Happening. Teenage Fanclub occasionally backed Alex Chilton live, and there's a fantastic two-song performance floating around out there that absolutely smokes. Unfortunately, I've never been able to find those tracks on any official release, which is precisely the kind of thing that keeps record collectors awake at night wondering if one more pressing variation might finally contain the answer. Of course, this marriage is also not surprising given that Bandwagonesque channels Big Star like a medium conducting a late-night séance with the ghosts of Ardent Studios. If anyone was destined to tackle Chilton's catalog, it was Teenage Fanclub.

I do own a reissue featuring Alex's version of Free Again, but this Teenage Fanclub take, released on the legendary indie label K Records, is as close to perfect as you could hope for. And if you're recording for K, it seems almost mandatory to pay tribute to the label's founders by tackling a Beat Happening song. Their version of Bad Seed does exactly that.

Which reminds me, it's probably time for more Beat Happening around here. There can never be too much Calvin Johnson in the mix, and if there is, I haven't reached that point yet.

Henry Badowski - My Face

I’m sitting in my upstairs record room, cradling a hot caffeinated life-support system and surveying what can only be described as a Category 5 Kaos Event. Boxes are everywhere. Some are stacked with purpose. Others appear to have arrived through spontaneous combustion. Archaeologists could spend decades excavating this room and still be puzzled by some of my organizational choices.

The timing, of course, is impeccable because in two weeks the roof gets replaced (delayed a week due to rain delaying their other projects). I have a metal roof, and at the moment it remains a mystery whether the plywood underneath will need replacing. If it does, things could get interesting in a hurry. This room has vaulted ceilings with stained wood trim running along the sides and across the peaks at roughly five-foot intervals. And under that appears to be drywall. In other words, all sorts of decorative features designed specifically to complicate the life of an already stressed-out record collector.

My current strategy, if you can call it that, is to have the roofer take a look once they get up there and tell me whether the plywood has to go and what it will do to the drywall. If the answer is yes, I may need them to begin elsewhere while I scramble for a ladder and attempt to remove the interior wood trim before gravity and poor planning combine forces against me. If that happens I can just imagine what will happen to the drywall and there is no way I will be able to replace that myself. There are also a pair of beams on each side that I suspect are more decorative than structural, but I've been wrong before. Frequently. Spectacularly. They may need to cut around them, which is exactly the kind of sentence that raises my blood pressure.

What I envision is a tremendous amount of work being performed by a clumsy, largely untalented handyman, namely me. I've already purchased heavy plastic sheeting, and this weekend's opening act involves moving records and assorted treasures into the room next door, which mercifully lacks vaulted ceilings and the potential for roofing debris to rain down like confetti at a parade nobody wanted. I'm hopeful the mess will be minimal, but experience has taught me that home improvement projects operate under the same laws as record collecting: whatever you think will happen will be replaced by a stranger, more expensive plot twist.

To distract myself from this impending adventure in roof-based anxiety, I'm posting another wonderfully obscure record.

I've always thought I.R.S. was an interesting label. My introduction was through R.E.M., but I completely missed their earlier days when they were putting out pioneering new wave and punk releases from artists like the Buzzcocks and Henry Badowski. They were remarkably forward-thinking, bringing a lot of great UK music to American audiences long before it was fashionable. I even uploaded a 45 they released by the original Animals not too long ago (see Eric Burdon and the Animals).

I picked up both copies of today's single within the last year, and I'm fairly certain I've heard it before, probably on one of those I.R.S. compilation albums that quietly educated a generation of musical misfits. The label had a knack for slipping unusual and fascinating records into your life, and decades later I'm still discovering things they released. Which is fortunate because between the roof project and the box-filled chaos surrounding me, I need all the distractions I can get. If nothing else, when the roofers arrive, they may finally discover what lies beneath the stacks. Hopefully it's just more records and not the fossilized remains of unfinished projects from 1997.

Smithereens - Elaine

I have to admit I was surprised to discover I only have one Smithereens 45 featured on the old blog, and one I was certain I'd already posted apparently remains trapped somewhere in the vast archaeological dig that is my record collection. Rather than spend the morning excavating boxes and questioning my own memory, I pulled out a deep album cut from one of their most accessible records.

I remember hearing plenty of Smithereens songs off this LP on Modern Rock radio back in the day, but today's catchy little gem wasn't one of them. Pat DiNizio had a gift for writing songs that sounded like they should have been hits even when they weren't. He could take heartbreak, wrap it in a jangly hook, and make you want to sing along to your own emotional collapse.

In this song he opens with: "I got your letter in the mail the other day. You had to say that you were leaving me."

Well, that line landed a little too close to home.

Back in college I dated a woman, and to make a very long story short, the relationship crashed and burned with enough drama to keep a daytime soap writer employed for several seasons. Fast forward three years later and we somehow reconnect. I was living in Aurora, Colorado, she was in Loveland, and after a few visits and a lot of late night phone calls it seemed possible that maybe life was giving us an unexpected second chance.

Feeling optimistic, I invited her down to Denver to see Robin Hitchcock. Looking back, I probably spent more time planning that evening than I spent planning most major life decisions.

The night arrived. She didn't.

I called. No answer.

I called again. Still nothing.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I received a letter that absolutely shredded me from top to bottom. To say I was blindsided would be understating things by several zip codes.

I wrote back. I honestly don't remember exactly what I said, which is probably for the best. I do remember it wasn't nasty. Somewhere in the letter I wished her a wonderful life, told her I wouldn't bother her again, and then I kept that promise.

At the time it felt awful. Today it feels more like one of those strange plot twists that only make sense in the final chapter. What seemed like rejection was really redirection. A closed door I spent years trying to reopen turned out to be protecting the path I was supposed to take.

Not long afterward I met a wonderful woman, married her, and here we are 31 years later. Meanwhile, that Robin Hitchcock ticket became considerably less important than I thought it was at the time.

So while my old love wasn't named Elaine, I still think of her whenever I hear this song. And I genuinely hope she found peace, left the drama behind, and had a happy life. 

As for me, I've learned that sometimes the most valuable letter you'll ever receive is the one that convinces you to stop waiting for the wrong story to continue and start living the right one instead.

XTC - Ten Feet Tall/Helicopter/The Somnambulist

Yesterday was a complete washout. It started with waking up with a neck ache, which is always a promising sign that the day is about to become a meaningful character-building exercise. To make matters worse, there was no coffee because I had an early doctor’s appointment. Nothing says "ready to face the world" quite like dragging yourself out the door uncaffeinated.

By the time the appointment wrapped up, complete with a flu shot and blood work, my head was pounding and I felt like I had been volunteered as a human science experiment. Whatever energy I started the morning with had been extracted and carefully stored in a vial somewhere.

So I waved the white flag, took the rest of the day off, and fully committed myself to the noble art of wallowing in misery. Sometimes the universe hands you a productive day. Other times it hands you a sore neck, no coffee, a needle in each arm, and an invitation to spend the afternoon starring in your own low-budget medical drama. Yesterday was definitely the latter. So I need to start today off the right way with coffee and XTC.

XTC was one of those bands I completely fell for while attending Colorado State University. I still remember hitting a yard sale one Saturday morning and finding a guy unloading his punk 45s and albums for prices that now seem like ancient folklore. The problem was that I was a poor college student operating under the radical notion that eating food and paying rent were somehow important. Faced with such unreasonable financial responsibilities, I had to be selective. Present-day me would have swept the entire collection into my arms like a crazed record-hoarding fiend I am and worried about the consequences later.

Even with my limited budget, I managed to snag some of my first XTC singles and albums that day, which turned out to be a pretty good investment in my future musical obsession. XTC always had a knack for writing ridiculously catchy songs, and "Ten Feet Tall" is no exception. I've owned both the stock and promo copies for years, but that strange sleeve is a much more recent addition. I picked it up with a promo copy at the Colorado Springs record show back in March.

To this day, I have absolutely no idea what it is. It doesn't appear to be homemade, it doesn't match anything I've ever seen before, and my attempts at detective work have produced more questions than answers. Naturally, that made it completely irresistible. The geeky record collector portion of my brain took one look and declared, "I don't know what this is, but it's coming home with me." Sometimes the mystery is half the fun. Sometimes it's the entire reason the thing ends up in the collection.