Welcome to the deep dive. Today we're looking
at a, well, a particularly fascinating piece
of source material. Yeah, it's a really wild
one. It really is. We are looking at the Wikipedia
article for a single song titled I'm Going to
Find a Cave. Right. And if you happen to catch
the Apple podcast title and description for this
deep dive before hitting play, you already have
a sense of the terrain we're covering today.
You'd have to. I mean, the title is a mouthful.
It is. I'm looking at it right now. The title
reads, The Deep Dive, the bizarre evolution of
I'm Gonna Find a Cave from 60's Soul to the Banana
Splints and Seattle Grunge. That really sets
the stage. And the description lays out our mission
for today. It says, join us on this deep dive
as we trace the unbelievable globe -trotting
journey of the 1965 song I'm Gonna Find a Cave.
Written by Jimmy Radcliffe and Buddy Scott, this
track morphed from a 1966 Soul and Psycho Billy
number into a British mod classic a uruguayan
garage rock staple and surprisingly a saturday
morning cartoon hit for the banana splits he's
just still just so funny to me right It goes
on to say, we explore how this one song connects
the 1960s freak beat scene to the early Seattle
grunge movement with girl trouble on the legendary
Sub Pop 200 compilation and even spawned a 2011
campaign to make it the official man cave anthem.
That's a huge timeline. Huge. And it finishes
with, if you love music history, rare covers,
and the strange ways pop culture evolves, this
deep dive is your ultimate guide to a hidden
musical gem. And then it lists the SEO keywords,
which I'll just read because why not? Yeah, lay
them on us. SEO keywords. I'm going to find a
cave. Jimmy Ratcliffe, Bananas Bliss, 1960s music
history, Garage Rock, Psychobilly, music covers,
Sub Pop 200, Man Cave Anthem. Gotta love the
algorithm. Exactly. But seriously, we are tracking
the mutations of a single piece of music. Written
in 1965. And it just travels across continents.
It jumps wildly between genres. It survives.
Yes. It survives decades of cultural shifts.
So the core mystery we want you to keep in mind
today is, you know, the mechanics of that survival.
Right. Like how does it actually happen? Exactly.
How does a song move from an English mod track
to a Uruguayan garage rock single to a staple
of the Seattle grunge scene and eventually become
a candidate for a, well, an architectural novelty
anthem? It's a journey. Okay, let's unpack this
by starting at the very beginning. The genesis
of the track happens in 1965. Right. It's credited
to writers Jimmy Radcliffe and Buddy Scott, but
the song doesn't actually see the light of day
until 1966. Which is just a wildly unpredictable
year for the music industry anyway. Totally.
So the very first recorded version we have on
record is by a soul singer named Charlie Starr.
It comes out as a United Artists Records single,
specifically single number 500 -029. Okay. The
production is handled by Gary Ganiham, and the
arrangement is done by Herb Bernstein. Now, that
initial recording is the absolute baseline we
need to establish. Right, before we get into
all the crazy mutations. Exactly. When we look
at the architecture of a 1966 soul arrangement
by someone like Herb Bernstein. Who was working
within that United Artists ecosystem. Right.
We are looking at a highly structured, very deliberate
piece of commercial art. How so? Well, arrangers
of that era were essentially structural engineers
for pop music. That's a great way to put it.
They dictated the exact moment the brass section
would swell to emphasize a lyric, you know. The
precise pocket the rhythm section needed to sit
in. It wasn't just musicians jamming in a room.
No, not at all. They plotted the specific call
and response dynamics of the backing vocalists.
This wasn't a loose studio session. It was a
calibrated framework. Designed to hit mainstream
R &B and pop radio. Simultaneously, yeah. So
the original DNA of I'm Gonna Find a Cave is
deeply rooted in this emotive, slightly dramatic,
but highly polished structural professionalism.
Right. The lyrics deal with it. need to escape,
to retreat from the world. And in the context
of a 1966 soul ballad, that translates directly
into a passionate, heartbroken plea. Okay, but
I want to push back on that highly polished idea
slightly. Okay, go for it. Or at least I want
to examine how quickly that polish wears off.
Because in the exact same year, 1966, Billy Lee
Riley gets his hands on the track. Oh, I already
did. He releases it on Crescendo Records, single
number 371. And the sources describe his version
as early psychobilly. Which is a huge pivot.
It is. Now, obviously, the term psychobilly is
a retroactive label. Right. Nobody in 1966 was
walking into a record store asking for the psychobilly
section. Exactly. That is a crucial distinction.
The term didn't really crystallize until much
later. primarily around bands like The Cramps
in the late 70s and early 80s. But when historians
look back at what Billy Lee Riley was doing in
1966 with this specific crescendo release, they
apply the term. Because he was injecting this
frantic, unhinged, almost paranoid energy into
standard rockabilly structures. Right. But here's
my question. How does an arrangement engineered
for a smooth soul delivery survive that kind
of manic acceleration? That's a good question.
If Bernstein built this song with sweeping horns
and a tight R &B pocket, doesn't speeding it
up and playing it with frantic rockabilly instrumentation
just break the song entirely? You would think
so. Are we sure Riley wasn't just hijacking the
lyrics and discarding the original melody? He
wasn't, and it doesn't break the song. That points
directly to the underlying brilliance of Radcliffe
and Scott's songwriting. Okay, how so? A poorly
constructed song shatters when you change the
tempo or the instrumentation. A robustly written
song reveals a new facet of its core identity.
Like holding up a diamond to the light. Exactly.
Think about the lyrical premise. Wanting to retreat
into a cave to escape the world. When Charlie
Starr sings it with a soul arrangement, the cave
is a metaphor for a broken heart. He wants to
hide because he's wounded. Right. But when Billy
Lee Riley sings those exact same words at a frantic
tempo with aggressive distorted guitars, the
context shifts entirely. It's not a broken heart
anymore. No. The cave is no longer a place to
nurse a wound. It becomes a bunker. It becomes
a paranoid demand to get away from a society
he can no longer tolerate. That's a completely
different vibe. Completely. Right. But the melody
is strong enough to carry both the sorrow of
the soul version and the manic aggression of
the rockabilly version without losing its structural
integrity. That dual nature of the lyrics is
just fascinating. A song acts as a psychological
mirror for whoever is performing it. That's exactly
what it is. a lot of people were looking into
that mirror in 1966. Oh, for sure. Because if
we look across the Atlantic to the British music
scene during that same 12 month period, the song's
malleability gets put to a very rigorous, almost
scientific test. We're talking about Mickey Dallin
now. We are. We have a singer, songwriter, and
record producer named Mickey Dallin. He runs
an independent label called Strike Records. Right.
And Dallin doesn't just cover the song. He releases
his own mod version on Strike Records as Single
306. But he doesn't stop there. No, he does not.
Over the course of 1966, Dallin produces versions
of this exact same song for two other acts. In
the same year. In the same year. He produces
it for the British freak beat group, The Sorrows.
and the London R &B act Jimmy Powell. and the
dimensions. The sheer volume of altitude from
one producer on a single track in one year is
highly unusual. It's obsessive. It is. We really
have to analyze the producer mindset here. Dallin
is operating in the epicenter of the 1966 London
scene. It's just fiercely competitive. And moving
at breakneck speed. Subcultures are fracturing
and evolving month by month. You have the mods.
You have the burgeoning freak beat scene. You
have the traditional club R &B scene. Everyone
is fighting for space. Exactly. And Dallin hears,
I'm going to find a cave. Yeah. And clearly recognizes
it as the perfect sonic vehicle for the broader
youth dissatisfaction of the era. But instead
of betting on just one subculture, May. He uses
his position as a producer to essentially A -B
test the track across the entire spectrum of
London's underground. Let me play devil's advocate
here for a second, though. Is this actually a
case of a producer having a grand artistic vision
about youth dissatisfaction? You're wondering
if it's just about money. I am. Is this just
pure cynical economics? I mean, if you own the
publishing rights or you've secured a favorable
mechanical license, isn't it just a smart financial
hedge to force every band on your roster to cut
the track, hoping one of them hits the charts?
It's absolutely a financial hedge. Okay. But
in the 1960s British record industry, the economics
and the artistic vision were inextricably linked.
They weren't mutually exclusive. Right. You couldn't
force a hit just by sheer repetition. if the
subculture rejected the sound. That makes sense.
The kids would know if it was fake. Exactly.
Dallin had to tailor the song specifically to
the aesthetic demands of each group's audience.
So how did he do that? Well, his own mod version
would have emphasized a clean, sharp, rhythmic
groove, reflecting the stylized, fashion -conscious
nature of the mod movement. The sharp suits,
the scooters. Yeah. But when he handed the track
to the Sorrows, he had to recalibrate completely.
Because the Sorrows were a Freakbeat band. Right.
And Freakbeat took the foundations of American
R &B and aggressively distorted them. It was
a much harsher sound. It was the sound of British
musicians pushing their amplifiers to the absolute
limit of failure. They were experimenting with
early fuzz pedals, creating a denser, more abrasive
wall of sound. So the sorrows version of the
cave metaphor becomes much heavier and more aggressive
than the mod version. Chris Laisley, it's a completely
different emotional texture. And what about Jimmy
Powell? And the dimensions. They were a staple
of the live London R &B club circuit. So for
them, Dallin would strip away the freak beat
distortion and focus on a grittier, sweatier,
blues vamp approach. More traditional, in a sense.
Yes. The fact that Dallin successfully mapped
the identical chords and lyrics of I'm Gonna
Find a Cave onto these three distinct sonic templates.
proves the inherent elasticity of the composition.
It really does. He wasn't just throwing spaghetti
at the wall. He was demonstrating how a single
piece of American songwriting could be reverse
engineered to soundtrack three different factions
of British youth culture simultaneously. It really
highlights how much power independent producers
wielded as tastemakers and cultural conduits
during that era. They were the gatekeepers. But
the transmission of this song doesn't stop in
London. Not even close. Here's where it gets
really interesting. While Dallin is blanketing
the British underground with the track, the song
simultaneously surfaces 6 ,000 miles away. In
South America. Yes. Still in the year 1966, a
Uruguayan garage rock quintet called Lost Bulldogs
records their own version. Which is just staggering
to think about. It gets released as an RCA Victor
single and later appears on their second full
-length LP. This is where we have to look closely
at the physical mechanics of global music distribution.
in the mid -1960s. Because they couldn't just
download it. Exactly. Yeah. The idea that a relatively
obscure track currently being volleyed between
American soul studios and British free beat clubs
lands in Montevideo, Uruguay in the exact same
calendar year. It's crazy when you consider the
technological limitations of the era. It really
is. They aren't monitoring a global digital chart.
Right. They are relying on physical media. How
does a Uruguayan quintet even acquire the record
in time to learn it, record it, and press their
own version before the year is out? It was an
entirely physical supply chain, driven by the
merchant marine, international radio DJs, and
global distribution deals. The actual movement
of objects. Exactly. Port cities like Montevideo
were crucial nodes in this network. Sailors and
travelers would buy 45s in London or New York
and sell or trade them at independent record
shops near the docks in South America. So a literal
sailor just handed the song off? Potentially.
Oh? Or, simultaneously, major labels like RCA
Victor had aggressive international licensing
divisions. A stack of promotional 45s could be
loaded onto a cargo flight from London, arrive
at a radio station in Uruguay, and be broadcast
the next day. That's incredible. Los Bulldogs
likely heard either the original American release
or one of Dallin's British productions. immediately
identified the structural similarities to their
own garage rock sensibilities and cut it. Okay,
but one detail from the sources that stands out
to me is that Lost Bulldogs chose to sing I'm
Gonna Find a Cave in English. Yeah, that's a
very specific choice. If the goal was to capitalize
on a great melody and bring it to their local
Uruguayan audience, wouldn't it make more sense
to translate the lyrics into Spanish? So the
local teenagers could actually understand the
angst of the cave metaphor. Exactly. Why keep
it in a foreign language? Because in the context
of the 1960s global garage rock, movement, English
wasn't primarily functioning as a language of
communication. What was it functioning as? It
was an instrument. It was a sonic aesthetic.
Oh, that makes a lot of sense. Translating the
lyrics into Spanish might have conveyed the literal
meaning, but it would have fundamentally altered
the rhythmic cadence of the vocal line. It wouldn't
sound like British or American rock anymore.
Right. And more importantly, it would have stripped
the song of its imported, rebellious cachet.
the coolness factor exactly for a garage rock
band in montevideo singing in the original english
signal to their audience that they were fully
plugged into the vanguard of the global rock
and roll youth movement the specific meaning
of the words mattered less than the attitude
and the phrasing precisely It was all about the
vibe. But that edgy, authentic rock and roll
attitude gets severely undercut by the other
side of their single. Oh, the B -side. Yes, the
B -side. Lost Bulldogs paired their English -language,
angst -ridden cover of I'm Gonna Find a Cave
with a cover of Winchester Cathedral. It is such
a funny juxtaposition. It really is. But that
juxtaposition is deeply revealing about the realities
of working as a rock band in the 1960s outside
of the major Anglo -American markets. Because
Winchester Cathedral was huge, right? It was
a massive Grammy -winning global hit in 1966
for the new vaudeville band. But it is unapologetically
a novelty song. Right. It's a pastiche of 1920s
dancehall music, featuring Rudy Vallee -style
vocals sung through a megaphone effect. So you
have this raw, driving garage rock track about
societal alienation on one side and a whimsically
nostalgic, toe -tapping vaudeville novelty tune
on the other. It feels like musical whiplash.
It totally does. It is, but it's a calculated
survival tactic. For a band like Lost Bulldogs,
operating in a smaller market, you couldn't always
afford to be a purist. You had to pay the bills.
Exactly. The A -side and the B -side of a single
often served entirely different economic functions.
The Winchester Cathedral cover was likely the
commercial bait. The safe bet. Yeah. It was a
proven, highly recognizable melody that radio
programmers would gladly play and older generations
might purchase. But the inclusion of I'm Gonna
Find a Cave... was the band carving out their
actual artistic identity. They were smuggling
a genuine garage rock ethos onto the same piece
of vinyl that housed a mainstream novelty hit.
That's brilliant, actually. It perfectly encapsulates
the dual existence of international rock bands
at the time, satisfying the commercial demands
of the local industry while desperately trying
to participate in the global underground. That
concept of smuggling a raw song into a mainstream
commercial vehicle is the perfect bridge to our
next timeline jump. Oh yeah, here we go. We are
moving from the frenetic energy of 1966 into
1968. This is the moment the song achieves actual
mainstream household recognition. And not the
way anyone would have expected. Not at all. It
doesn't happen via a prominent soul singer or
a breakout British rock band. It happens through
the vehicle of a Saturday morning children's
television show. The Banana Splits. In 1968,
the Banana Splits recorded I'm Gonna Find a Cave
for their album. We're the Banana Splits on Decca
Records. Let's give the catalog number for the
record nerds. Of course. The specific catalog
number is DECA DL 75075. The lead vocals are
handled by Ricky Lancelotti. And this track becomes
heavily featured on the Banana Splits Adventure
Hour, beaming it into millions of living rooms.
This is the era of what we might call cultural
laundering. Cultural laundering. I like that
term. It really applies here. How do you take
a song that was previously the domain of manic
psychobilly rockers, heavy British freak beat
groups, and Uruguayan garage bands, and make
it palatable for children eating cereal on a
Saturday morning? You put a guy in a giant dog
suit. Well, yes, but musically, you strip away
the cultural signifiers of rebellion and wrap
it in the aesthetics of bubblegum pop. I think
we need to look closely at the relationship between
garage rock and bubblegum pop here. They are
more closely related than people think. On the
surface, they seem like diametric opposites.
One is raw, distorted, and rebellious. The other
is manufactured, polished, and intensely commercial.
But musically, don't they share almost exactly
the same DNA? They absolutely do. And that was
the brilliant insight of the Hanna -Barbera Studio
executives and the Decca Records producers. Both
Garage Rock and Bubble Gum Pop rely on economy.
They use standard three -chord progressions.
Relentless, striving 4 -4 rhythms, and most importantly,
massive, undeniable vocal hooks. The producers
behind the Banana Splits recognized that the
underlying structure of a song like I'm Gonna
Find a Cave was intrinsically catchy. The melody
of the chorus, the rhythmic punch of the verses,
it was already perfect. All they had to do was
change the presentation. So they just cleaned
it up. They removed the heavy fuzz pedals that
the Sorrows used. They dialed back the manic
aggression of Billy Lee Riley. And they brought
the vocals forward in the mix with a bright,
clean production style. And suddenly the lyrics
mean something else entirely again. Right. When
a guy in a giant cartoon dog suit sings about
needing to hide in a cave, the metaphor shifts
yet again. It's no longer about heartbreak or
societal alienation. It's just a fun, slightly
goofy concept that kids can easily grasp. Exactly.
The song was culturally laundered, but its structural
integrity remained completely intact. And what's
incredible is that this wasn't an isolated incident
regarding the song's original writers. Jimmy
Radcliffe had quite the footprint there. He really
did. The sources note that four other Jimmy Radcliffe
songs were featured on the Banana Splits Adventure
Hour. Four other songs. Show Must Go On, Don't
Go Away, Go Go Girl, and Soul. This represents
a massive hidden influence on an entire generation
of consumers. Jimmy Ratcliffe essentially became
the secret architect of late 60s childhood nostalgia.
A songwriter whose work originated in the sophisticated
R &B and soul markets of the mid -60s is suddenly
writing the soundtrack for Saturday morning cartoons.
Millions of children were sitting in front of
their televisions absorbing complex brilliantly
crafted pop soul melodies without ever knowing
his name. He was providing the soundtrack to
their formative years by proxy. He was. And that
proxy influence echoes forward in really surprising
ways. The sources mentioned that the track Don't
Go Away Go Go Girl, one of those other Radcliffe
songs from the cartoon, was later recorded by
the indie pop punk band The Mr. T Experience.
That's a great band. It proves that the melodies
Radcliffe crafted were so durable they could
survive the transition from 60s soul into 60s
cartoons and emerge decades later as fodder for
90s punk rockers. us directly into our next major
shift yes let's look at the late 1980s the kids
who were watching the banana splits in 1968 are
now young adults exactly and in 1988 a punk band
from tacoma washington named girl treble releases
their version of the song slightly retitled as
gonna find a cave Right. And this track is included
on the highly influential Sub Pop 200 compilation,
which is a three LP boxed set carrying the catalog
number SP25. The inclusion of this track on Sub
Pop 200 is a massive historical pivot point.
It really is. This compilation is widely regarded
as one of the foundational documents of the early
Seattle grunge movement. You have bands on this
roster that would go on to reshape global music
in the 1990s. Nirvana is on there. Soundgarden
is on there. Exactly. So we have to ask, why
would a gritty Tacoma punk band operating in
a scene defined by heavy, sludgy, confrontational
rock choose to cover a song that a large portion
of their audience would primarily associate with
a guy in a cartoon animal suit? Because underneath
the cartoon presentation, they could hear the
original garage rock bones. They heard what Miki
Dallin heard in 1966. Yes. The Pacific Northwest
has a long, deep lineage of respecting raw 1960s
garage rock. Bands like the Sonics set a blueprint
in that region long before punk or grunge existed.
The early grunge and punk scenes in the Pacific
Northwest weren't exclusively looking to 1970s
heavy metal or 1980s hardcore for inspiration.
They were looking backward. They were deeply
indebted to the freak beat and garage sounds
of the mid -60s. They were rejecting the overproduced,
highly synthetic pop music of the 1980s, and
they found kindred spirits in the raw, unpolished
recordings of the 60s underground. covered Gonna
Find a Case, they weren't performing a novelty
cover of a cartoon theme. No, they were engaging
in an act of musical reclamation. They stripped
away the bright, clean Decca Records production
that Hanna -Marbera had layered over the track
in 1968. And they brought back the heavy distortion,
the aggressive tempo, and the raw vocal delivery
that characterized the earlier Miki Dallin freakbeat
productions. It's a fascinating cycle of cultural
recycling. It really is. The original 1965 soul
lyric, becomes a template for 1966 garage rock,
gets sanitized for 1968 morning television, and
then gets violently unsanitized to serve as a
1988 punk manifesto. The song is continually
drafted to serve the emotional needs of whatever
youth culture discovers it. But the story continues
past the 20th century. We have to bring it into
the modern era. The final facts we have from
the sources bring us into the 2000s, where the
song undergoes a completely different type of
linguistic and cultural recontextualization.
This part is so wild. In February 2011, Jimmy
Radcliffe's son launched a campaign to make I'm
Gonna Find a Cave, the international man cave
anthem. This development is arguably the most
radical shift the song has ever experienced.
Because it doesn't just change the musical genre.
No, it completely alters the fundamental meaning.
of the core lyric. Throughout all the previous
iterations, whether it was soul, psychobilly,
freak beat, or grunge, the word cave in the song
functioned as a psychological metaphor. It represented
a desperate need to withdraw from pain or society
or alienation. It was an expression of angst.
But by 2011, the cultural definition of a cave
in a domestic setting had shifted entirely. Completely
entirely. The phrase man cave had become a ubiquitous
term for a specific type of suburban consumerism.
It no longer meant a psychological retreat from
a harsh world. It meant a physical basement room
outfitted with a flat screen television, a recliner,
and sports memorabilia. It became a sanctuary
of leisure. And Jimmy Ratcliffe's son. recognized
this linguistic shift and playfully hijacked
it. He took a 50 -year -old song about emotional
isolation and pitched it as the perfect soundtrack
for a modern interior design trend. It is an
incredibly savvy piece of retroactive marketing.
It really is, utilizing the literal title of
the song to bridge a massive gap in cultural
context. I'm going to find a cave. To put my
pool table in. Exactly. It completely neuters
the original angst of the track, but in a way
that guarantees the song's continued survival
in the digital age. And that instinct for survival
brings us to the final specific event in our
timeline. Which brings us back to the emotional
core of the song in a weird way. In October 2017,
a group of retro rockers known as Spider 45 released
a tribute version of the song. What makes this
release stand out is the dedication. They specifically
dedicated their version to the recently deceased
bingo of the banana splits. That 2017 tribute
is where the complex, tangled web of this song's
history collapses into a single, deeply poignant
moment. Let's examine the layers here. You have
a modern garage band, Spider 45, dedicating themselves
to preserving the specific sonic aesthetics of
the 1960s. They are recording a song written
by a Brill Building era soul writer. But the
emotional weight of their tribute isn't directed
at Jimmy Radcliffe. Or Miki Dallin or Girl Trouble.
It's directed at the actor who wore a fictional
cartoon gorilla suit in 1968. They are mourning
the character who acted as the vessel, bringing
the song into their childhood living rooms. Precisely.
It demonstrates how the origin of a piece of
art often matters less than the point of entry
for the audience. For Spider 45, the definitive
version of I'm Gonna Find a Cave wasn't the United
Artists' soul release or the sub -pop punk cover.
It was the Decker Records' bubblegum pop version
they absorbed as children. By recording a raw,
retro -rock tribute to a bubblegum cartoon character
lip -syncing a soul song, they are acknowledging
the bizarre, interconnected nature of pop culture.
It honors the entire messy, contradictory journey
the song took over five decades. So when we look
at the complete lifespan of I'm Gonna Find a
Cave, we see a single set of lyrics and chords
that served as a blank canvas for over 50 years.
It's an incredible timeline. We started with
the polished structural engineering of a 1965
soul arrangement. We moved through the frantic
acceleration of early psychobilly. We watched
Mickey Dallin aggressively A -B tested across
the London Mod and Freak Beat scenes. We track
its physical shipment to a Uruguayan seaport,
where it was sung in English. alongside a vaudeville
novelty track. We saw it culturally laundered
for Saturday morning cartoons in 1968, only to
be violently reclaimed by Tacoma punks in 1988.
And finally, we watched its core metaphor pivot
from psychological angst to suburban leisure
in 2011, before coming full circle as a heartfelt
tribute to a cartoon gorilla in 2017. The overarching
narrative here is that music history is rarely
linear. It's not a neat progression from the
writer to the definitive performer to the history
books. True music history relies on an underground,
chaotic network of eccentric producers, physical
distribution anomalies, and the constant friction
between commercial demands and artistic expression.
A song survives the decades not simply because
it is technically proficient, but because its
fundamental structure is adaptable enough to
withstand constant radical reinterpretation.
I'm going to find a cave. proves that a truly
robust melody doesn't belong to any single genre,
era, or subculture. It belongs to whoever has
the audacity to reshape it for their own needs.
I think the concept of cultural laundering we
discussed earlier is the key takeaway here. Stripping
the song of its original context and putting
it in a cartoon is precisely what allowed it
to survive long enough to be rediscovered by
those Seattle punks. It's a brilliant paradox.
We want to leave you, the listener, with a final
thought to mull over. Think about the theme song
to your own favorite childhood television show,
the music you passively absorbed while eating
breakfast before school. What if the upbeat,
seemingly innocent track you remember is actually
a recycled, heavily sanitized version of an underground
garage punk anthem from a completely different
era? What other raw, aggressive pieces of musical
history have been culturally laundered and hidden
in plain sight, just waiting for someone to dig
them up and reclaim them? Thank you for joining
us on this deep dive. Keep your ears open. Keep
questioning the media you consume and keep exploring
the hidden stories buried in the soundtracks
of your life.