What made Bob Abrahamian’s Sitting in the Park so much more than a radio show was its reverence — a kind of deep, sonic anthropology. This particular episode, blending rarities from Chicago’s West Side with obscure cuts from Boston, Texas, and New Jersey, is a masterclass in the overlooked yet essential strata of soul. Bob wasn’t just a DJ — he was a caretaker of memory, and this show is a snapshot of his tireless mission to preserve the voices history tried to forget. He opens with The Intensions, a group from the West Side of Chicago who cut their track Just Can’t Win on the Moneytown label — a short-lived imprint that, like many independent soul ventures, was long on heart but short on commercial reach. The name “Moneytown” itself was an aspirational wink to Motown, but these Chicago labels were fighting a tougher battle: regional markets, low budgets, and minimal distribution. Still, groups like The Intensions pressed on, and Bob made sure they didn’t vanish into vinyl oblivion. Following that, we hear the mournful tones of Love Is Blind by the same group, reinforcing the raw emotional edge that typifies Chicago sweet soul. Then Jimmy Hayes, possibly backed by The Mandarins, delivers As the City Sleeps, a track heavy with nocturnal introspection. Bob follows that with Jeff Dale’s Our Love Will Go Stronger, Tracy Lavett’s In My Great Big Lonely Room, and Eddie Jefferson’s Uh Oh, I’m In Love Again — all showcasing solo voices grappling with longing, loneliness, and fragile hope. These were artists recording for local labels, or sometimes just demoing in basements, trying to break through during an era when even supremely talented acts could get swallowed by the noise. But Bob doesn’t just dwell in the past. In a gesture typical of his curatorial breadth, he spins High on Your Love by Kings Go Forth — a then-recent Milwaukee band featuring a singer from Motown’s overlooked group The Ones. This is more than a nod to continuity; it’s a subtle argument for soul’s timelessness. Kings Go Forth wasn't a retro act — they were part of a continuum, bringing the emotional weight and harmonic complexity of '60s soul into the 21st century. This mix of old and new is crucial. It shows that soul isn't just history — it's a living, breathing tradition. Bob’s inclusion of contemporary releases wasn’t an anomaly; it was part of his thesis. These modern soul acts are the torchbearers, proving that the spirit of Curtis, The Dells, or The Five Stairsteps still echoes today. His next set traverses the country: Boston’s girl group The Energies with How Many Tears, the Latin soul vibes of Benitez and Nebula on I’m So Sad, New Jersey’s obscure The Maxwells with Let’s Get Away, and Detroit’s The Expos with Your Best Friend and Me. These selections remind us that while major hubs like Chicago, Detroit, and Philadelphia were soul strongholds, every corner of America had its own soul dialect. These weren’t just scattered 45s — they were cultural artifacts, testimonies to the reach and resilience of soul music. Bob also slides into psychedelic territory with groups like Cold Fire Incorporated from Texas (I’m Gonna Love You Anyway) and Baltimore’s Color Us People Band (A Day Without Your Love). These tracks hint at how soul artists were adapting to the shifting musical landscape of the early ’70s, incorporating fuzz guitars, cosmic keyboards, and expanded song structures — innovations that mirrored the cultural shifts of the time, from Black Power to the funk revolution. And then, near the close, he honors a listener request with Kenny Woods’ That Guy’s Mine, circling back to the intimate, personal connection his show fostered. For Bob, every record was someone's story, and every listener mattered. That sense of community — between artist and audience, past and present — was the true pulse of Sitting in the Park. This episode is emblematic of Bob’s approach: eclectic yet thematically cohesive, emotionally resonant, and historically rich. It’s also a reminder that soul music, for all its emotional transparency, is layered and vast — spanning regions, decades, and stylistic evolutions. Without collectors like Bob, much of it would’ve been lost. But thanks to him, and the archive he left behind, these voices continue to sing.