The Foundations: "Baby, Now That I've Found You"

February 10, 1968 (1 week)

I have a bit of a bug up my ass over bands who are generally described as 'Beatle-esque' or 'Beatley'. Actually, it isn't so much the bands themselves — even though they're almost always incredibly boring — as it's the critics and fans who throw these terms around. No, the likes of Big Star, The Raspberries, Cheap Trick, Teenage Fanclub and, yes, Oasis aren't 'Beatle-esque', unless you're convinced that the Fab Four recorded "Day Tripper" and then decided that they were good with that sort of sound and would just do it forevermore. To be truly 'Beatley' is to be musically curious and not have a distinctive style. (Yes, Blur were far more similar to The Beatles than Oasis ever were)

I'm less judgemental when it comes to Motown. A label and quasi-genre, Berry Gordy's famed Detroit-based studio, nicknamed Hitsville USA, attempted to be formulaic but ran into various roadblocks along the way. Many of their most talented signings — Marvin Gaye, The Four Tops, The Temptations, Smokey Robinson, The Supremes, Stevie Wonder — proved also to be some of their most successful, each one was unique and they all proved to be unwilling or unable to be boxed in by the concerns of big business. The in-house songwriting, provided mainly by either Robinson himself or the team of Holland, Dozier and Holland (with both Gaye and Wonder composing their own work before long), was similarly far too accomplished to stick to a particular sound and style. It was only with their peerless studio band the Funk Brothers that there seemed to be an attempt to follow the formula. Motown acts were never a hundred percent 'Motowny', they just tended to have a common through line.

Britain's multiracial septet The Foundations arrived in the late sixties and quickly drew comparisons to Motown acts. But which ones? All of them? None? Bits of some? Who the hell knows. It was as if by not sounding like any of the major acts, they managed to sound more Motown than any of them. If being 'Beatle-esque' requires a group to be as stylistically all-over-the-place as possible, being 'Motowny' means being far more narrow than anyone who was actually signed to them.

Still, The Foundations couldn't quite get all the elements in place. "Baby, Now That I've Found You" opens with a rousing instrumental intro but one that neglects that familiar drum roll that commences so many Tamla classics. Yet, the tune itself is as snappy as anything the Hollands and Dozier ever wrote. Not unlike, say, "I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)", "My Girl" and "Stop! In the Name of Love", this is a song that might as well have existed forever. Even if you've never heard it before, it still sounds familiar. How much more Motown can you get?

The one other big thing separating it from those immortal soul-pop hits is professionalism. Not that The Foundations were cheap or amateurish, just that they sound like they were recording on a much tighter budget, in less state-of-the-art facilities and by performers who weren't exactly world class. Vocalist Clem Curtis does his best but he's hardly Marvelous Marvin or Levi Stubbs. The band isn't quite as tight either. It's effectively D.I.Y. Motown, a quintessentially British bastardization of an American institution (hardly the first or last time that's taken place in the UK).

Like later examples from British punk, ska, soul and house music, "Baby, Now That I Found You" ought to be dreadful but for the fact that it's pretty great. Motown — whether at its most formulaic or not — was never short on pop hooks to play around with and this Anglo facsimile is no different. As Tom Ewing implies in his review (in addition to Canada, the single went to number one in the UK in the autumn of 1967; it fell short just of the Top 10 on the Hot 100), The Foundations were wise to go all out with stomping on this recording, since this was around the time it was being phased out of Motown. Fans who missed the Hitsville USA of old still had something reasonably similar to embrace — and, indeed, to dance to. The backbone of eighties' UK pop was a near-universal love for old Motown records but the results were frequently too over-produced and slick to be really convincing. They would've done better to have followed The Foundations in the direction of a raw Motown sound.

Score: 8

Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart: "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight"

February 3, 1968 (1 week)

Few songwriters are as associated with a single act like the duo of Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart are with The Monkees. They co-wrote at least nineteen songs for the prefab four (with three more co-written with others; a few more songs of theirs ended up unreleased) with their contributions scattered over nearly fifty years' worth of recordings. While only two managed to reach number one in Canada, they also wrote the group's iconic theme song and supplied such much-loved tracks as "I Wanna Be Free", "(I'm Not Your) Stepping Stone", "She" and "Words". With the obvious exceptions of Mickey Dolenz, Davy Jones, Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork, no one was as essential to the Monkees' story as Boyce and Hart.

Interfering svengali Don Kirshner unceremoniously let them go as part of an unsuccessful power play in the spring of 1967 but it wasn't long before The Monkees welcomed them back into the fold. Their compositions tended towards lead vocals by either Dolenz or Jones (Tork shared lead on "Words" with the former as the lone exception) and the two actors/singers were so fond of them that the supergroup of Dolenz, Jones, Boyce and Hart was formed in 1975, with a self-titled album and lengthy tour of the United States and Asia the following year. Elsewhere, Boyce and Hart's writing credits are surprisingly scarce. For the purposes of this blog, their only real contribution of note is "Come a Little Bit Closer" for Jay and the Americans. Still, it sort of makes sense: they had struggled as young songwriters since the late fifties and it's understandable that they would've wanted to hold on to their cash cow once it belatedly arrived.

The pair also did some recording of their own. While Kirshner would make unfounded claims that they would use studio time allotted to The Monkees to work on their own material, he might have had a better case had he accused them of squirelling away their best stuff instead. Judging by how it holds up alongside, say, "P.O. Box 9847" from fifth album The Birds, the Bees and the Monkees, it seems as if they kept sure-fire mega-hit "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight" in their back pocket. It would be interesting to hear a Monkees' demo of it but there's no evidence the group ever tried it out. (It almost certainly would have cropped up on either their Missing Links series of archive albums or the subsequent box sets and deluxe editions that have been released over the years had Boyce and Hart ever donated it to them) That said, it's hard to say what they would have done with it: while it is easy to imagine Dolenz giving a stirring vocal, otherwise there's the inescapable sense that they wouldn't have quite pulled it off.

To be fair, even matching what Boyce and Hart did with it would have been nigh on impossible. From its kick off, "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight" is an adorable creation, one that never puts a foot wrong for its two minutes and forty-one seconds of running time. It's the sort of pop song that never lets up, never loses the listener's attention and never gets tiresome no matter how much this humble blogger plays it to death. (Notably, my wife hasn't once complained which is a far greater stamp of approval than all my words of praise could ever do for it!) I've been obsessed with it: I gave a couple classes this afternoon and had Joe Osborne's brief bass solo running through my head the entire time, I walked the dog an hour ago and found myself singing snippets of it as well as Marvin Stamm's superb trumpet solo. Even Boyce's calls of "come on now" and "all right, Bobby, let's go" make it that much better.

Perfectly capable singers and musicians, along with being accomplished songwriters, it's a wonder why Boyce and Hart weren't able to cut it as a long term pop combo in their own right. ("I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight" proved to be their only major hit and it didn't even manage to do much outside of North America) Sadly, they didn't look like stars. Dolenz and Jones were both born to be on stage and even the more serious and musical Nesmith and Tork had an ease with audiences and cameras that their colleagues behind the scenes plainly didn't have. They look like members of a backing band who vaguely resent all this showbiz bullshit even while the singer they play with is happy to lap up all the attention. The energy and verve with which they performed their recordings failed to make them adequate performers.

I tend to think of people like Boyce and Hart as being perpetually in the background. Yet, like George Gershwin, Cole Porter and most of the Brill Building generation, they had aspirations to be recording artists in their own right. We've already seen Barry Mann and Neil Sedaka make the jump — as well as Roger Cook and Roger Greenway under the guise of 'David and Jonathan', though they made the head scratching decision to be the songwriting duo who had a hit with a cover version (and a bad one at that) — and there will be a few more in this space to come. But none made the leap as well as Boyce and Hart, even if their success proved fleeting. As if the stuff they were providing The Monkees wasn't brilliant enough, this song that they set aside for themselves was on whole other level indeed.

Score: 10

Small Faces: "Itchycoo Park"

January 27, 1968 (1 week)

"Ferry Cross the Mersey", "Strawberry Fields Forever", "Penny Lane", "Waterloo Sunset": some of the leading British songwriters of the sixties (and Gerry Marsden) really leaned into the trend of putting actual places into compositions. And it sure worked. Though none of the above managed to top the UK charts, these singles still performed well and were critically acclaimed and earned the praise of songwriters everywhere.

I'm a little surprised this practice didn't become even more commonplace, especially after the Fab Four's unbeatable double A side of "Strawberry Fields" and "Penny Lane". Pete Townshend — and, indeed, none of his other mates in The Who — doesn't appear to have written one of his own. (I spent far too long the other day trying to rationalize "I Can See for Miles" as maybe an attempt on his part but it isn't and I wish I hadn't bothered trying to circle that particular square) Neither did Graham Nash, the soon-to-be ex-Hollie. Over on the other side of the Atlantic, Gerry Goffin and Carole King's "Pleasant Valley Sunday" was kind of an equivalent, albeit one that far more sneering than the much more drug-fueled and pacified English numbers above. 

So, is "Itchycoo Park" an attempt by Small Faces members Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane to immortalize yet another spot on the map? Yes but with some caveats. The first thing worth pointing out is that this park of theirs isn't a real place. Some sleuths have tried to find real London parks that might have inspired it and I'm sure Marriott and Lane used their childhood memories and experiences as adults on acid to come up with a composite grassland/woodland for this song. Does it matter that Itchycoo Park isn't real when Lennon and McCartney wrote "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Penny Lane" respectively from their memories and at a considerable distance from these two Liverpool landmarks?

The other thing to consider is that it doesn't perform the same tasks as its related compositions. "Penny Lane" is an exercise in absurdity — as is "Pleasant Valley Sunday" though it is also drenched in cynicism — while both "Ferry Cross the Mersey" and "Waterloo Sunset" rely on sentimentality. "Strawberry Fields" is the one "Itchycoo Park" is closest to but even then the former is dark and introspective while the latter trades in a muddied mix of joy ("...have fun in the sun") and sorrow ("...well, I cried"). When Lennon implores you to "let me take you down", it's on the sort of trip you'd hesitate to take; whereas Marriott urges the listener to bunk off school ("Why go to learn the words of fools?") so they can get high together. Nothing frightening going on there.

Comparing even the very best that Marriott and Lane were capable of with Lennon and McCartney and Ray Davies does them no favours but "Itchycoo Park" is still a more than worthy attempt to compete with them, especially when you consider that they produced it as well. (Davies did likewise but "Waterloo Sunset" isn't a studio triumph to anywhere near the same extent) If the lyrics are a little scattered and directionless, then musically every key change hits beautifully. Their deeply uninteresting 'East End R&B' is nowhere to be seen, as is their over-reliance on music hall. Instead, their finest three minute pop song has an agreeable groove with plenty of psychedelic rock to aid the visit to this non-existent park of theirs. (That said, their roots aren't ignored entirely: while not a completely effective cover, British dance-pop act M People's version extracts the song's soul and gospel backbone which is easy to ignore in the original)

I grew up in the nineties, the perfect age to be into Brit-pop. (Though geography didn't help since indie music from the UK had bottomed out in North America, even as a niche market) Canadian and American music critics were largely dismissive of the genre, putting down as all hype on the part of a suddenly patriotic British press. I had no time for this load of crap for the most part - yeah, American critics wouldn't debase themselves to over-hype all those terrible jam bands of the era - with one unexpected exception. Q Magazine printed an article on the Small Faces, describing them as the "most perfect group in history" or something equally overcooked. Though seldom if ever overrated in their own time, there now seemed to be this desire to overdo the praise as Brit-pop forefathers. I was keen to give them a listen but very little of their stuff clicked with me. The early work failed to excite and even their supposed masterpiece — and swansong — Ogden's Nut Gone Flake didn't do anything for me. (I will say I am willing to give it another try, it could very well grow on me) But with "Itchycoo Park" they just about manage to deliver something that holds up next to their superiors, as well as those they'd one day influence.

Score: 8

The Rose Garden: "Next Plane to London"

January 20, 1968 (1 week)

One of my favourite YouTube channels is Todd in the Shadows. It is run by Todd Nathanson and, barring the odd out-of-place video on buses, is focused on music. Of primary interest to me are his intermittent series Trainwrecords and One Hit Wonderland. In the latter, he discusses once popular hits by acts who subsequently disappeared. He's far from the only individual who likes going on about the one-hit wonder phenomenon but he is just about the only one who attempts to be thoughtful and nuanced on the matter. In entries on famous one-and-done Billboard Hot 100 chart toppers "Come On Eileen" and "Take on Me", he goes to great pains to emphasize that both Dexys Midnight Runners and a-ha were regular hit makers elsewhere and that their dubious status is ultimately not deserved. He doesn't like every artist covered but he respects all of them enough to give some consideration to the remainder of their output. (He even did so with RPM number one "Seasons in the Sun" by Terry Jacks, which, unfortunately, I will be getting to in time)

Nathanson doesn't look at too many sixties' hits — which is at least in part due to the one hit wonder craze being a creation of the eighties — and so I can't imagine he's been in much of a hurry to include The Rose Garden in One Hit Wonderland. For one thing, it was only a modest Stateside hit, peaking at a respectable but hardly chart busting number seventeen. Whatsmore, it never had much of a life beyond its brief chart ride at the beginning of 1968: cover versions are few and far between with arguably the best known being a French-Canadian rendition from the same year. In addition to that, it's not the sort of throwback that tends to crop up in film soundtracks. Most problematic though is the fact that it plainly isn't memorable enough. One of the key factors in being a one hit wonder is that you have to be remembered. You may not care for "Don't Worry, Be Happy" or "I'm Too Sexy" but there's a pretty good chance you can recall it.

But can anyone recall The Rose Garden's "Next Plane to London"? I'm sure some must but it's hard to imagine how. The chorus could be easy to remember but the delivery is so flat that it just drags rather than soars. Normally I'm a bit of a sucker for deadpan female singers but Diana Di Rose gives off vibes of boredom rather than the feeling that she's above it all so that doesn't do the single any favours. (Renee Martel's francophone cover isn't a whole lot better but her reading is the stronger of the two) As with predecessor "Woman, Woman" by The Union Gap, "Next Plane to London" is a country song. Perhaps it would have been better suited to songwriter Kenny Gist Jr. (aka Kenny O'Dell) instead. Or he could have donated it to one of the many struggling bubblegum pop acts of the era who aspired to flying off to Britain to cut a record.

Funnily enough, the B side to "Next Plane to London" is considerably better than its flip. As the single's Wikipedia page states, "Flower Town" sounds very much like Gene Clark, with the vocals not unlike his outstanding Byrds' contribution "Set You Free This Time". It also has a simple but affecting folk music backing topped by a dreamy flute that weaves its way through most of the song. The effortlessness of the recording leads me to suspect that this was the sort of thing the members of The Rose Garden were much more at home with. They weren't looking to Swinging London for inspiration, all they seemed to want was to be playing songs of peace and love in David Crosby's back yard or something. "Flower Town" isn't anything close to a banger but at least I didn't feel bored to death listening to it.

There is some debate as to what constitutes a one hit wonder. While the literal definition — have just the one hit single, if only in one territory — is the most common, others have tried to make the case that it should be applied mostly to big hits rather than those that only enjoy a cup of coffee in the Top 40 before vanishing. Critic and podcaster Chris Molanphy once came up with his own definition which discounted coattail riding follow-ups, such as the forgettable "Vienna Calling" which made the American Top 20 as it quickly followed the number one success of Falco's "Rock Me Amadeus" in 1986. But, to reiterate, I think it's vital to have just the one memorable hit in order to qualify for one hit wonder status. Eighties' duo Eurythmics (excuse me, 'Eurythmics, Annie Lennox, Dave Stewart' as they prefer to be known today) had several hits in North America but are they remembered by the wider public for anything other than "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)"? Haven't they become de facto one hit wonders over time? In that spirit, what about The Rose Garden? Since few seem to remember them, do they really meet the criteria for one hit wonderdom? Just wait and see if Todd Nathanson ever gets round to discussing them. I'll wait.

Score: 3

The Union Gap: "Woman, Woman"

January 13, 1968 (1 week)

It wouldn't be fully reflected at the top of the Canadian charts until the seventies but one of the coming musical trends for 1968 would be country rock, a rootsy blend of a pair of previously opposing genres. Bob Dylan seemed to see it coming with the release of John Wesley Harding at the very end of '67. It was a stark, stripped back affair that contrasted with the dynamism of previous official release Blonde on Blonde. (Even though the two were cut in the same Nashville studio with many of the same musicians) Meanwhile, Columbia label mates The Byrds had also begun dabbling in country, a style they would fully embrace by the midway point of the year. Spiraling into irrelevance, San Francisco's Beau Brummels even began working on a surprisingly strong country project of their own, which they titled Bradley's Barn.

Perhaps in no small part due to the involvement of The Byrds, the country rock movement is typically attributed as coming from individuals who had grown weary of psychedelic rock excess and were looking for a calmer headspace. (This narrative would only grow with The Grateful Dead's sudden shift from the acid-fueled jams of 1969's Aoxomoxoa to their sublime downhome duo of Workingman's Dead and American Beauty the following year) While The Union Gap were a relatively new act on the American pop scene, singer Gary Puckett had already made a failed attempt at stardom with The Outcasts. It is with their mid-sixties' singles "Run Away" and "I Can't Get Through to You" that you can hear early signs of psychedelic music. Jump ahead to the beginning of 1968 and his new act sounds like they were auditioning for the position of house band at the Grand Old Opry. (Quite what happened between the end of The Outcasts and this first Union Gap hit is up to the imagination, unless you happened to see them playing a show in the midst of their acid-to-country transition)

No, this is not your outlaw uncle's brand of country and western; rather, this is the old school Jim Reeves crooner variety. To be fair, Puckett and his crew couldn't have known that the tougher side of C&W would be the one favoured by rock's cooler kids. There had been a widespread instinct at the time to dial things back. The Beach Boys came off the Smile/Smiley Smile debacle with the pared down, R&B-influenced Wild Honey. Meanwhile, over in the UK, the simultaneous blues and folk booms were getting started while The Beatles were already scaling things back with their boogie single "Lady Madonna". (I maintain that the Fab Four should have released it and B side "The Inner Light along with John Lennon's recent compositions "Across the Universe" and "Hey Bulldog" as a brilliant E.P.; I would mention this elsewhere but for the fact that "Lady Madonna" didn't get to number one in Canada) Puckett had the right idea, only he went in the wrong direction.

Gifted a country composition, The Union Gap embraced fifties Nashville on "Woman, Woman". Considering Puckett's chewy baritone, they were probably right to go with mainstream country but it doesn't really ring true with these newfound back to roots values. If anything, it makes them sound more out of time than either the back to basics types or the acid rock holdovers. It isn't the worst attempt at countrifying the pop charts during this period (that happens to be the very next RPM number one) but there's little to say about it as well. How did it do so well? I think it's down to a combination of Puckett's dreamboat smile and crusty old dads hearing it, nodding with approval and going out to buy it for their kids. Or it's simply the public likes turgid old crap, the same old story. Either way, the single would kick start quite a year for the quintet as they joined an exclusive club alongside Elvis, The Beatles and a handful of others as acts for score at least three number ones on the Canadian hit parade within a calendar year.

I had never heard "Woman, Woman" before last week but I found myself listening to it an awful lot ever since. Considering my dismissiveness above, you might expect me to have played it a minimal amount and I would have done so but I couldn't get a grasp on it because it kept making me think of the 1993 dark comedy So I Married an Ax Murderer. Puckett's highfalutin sobs of "Woman, Wo-o-o-woman!" are so over the top that it's as if he's channeling his inner Mike Myers. Would "Woman, Woman" have sounded more at home as an amusingly twisted poem set to a basic jazz groove? It's impossible to say but yes, yes it would have.

Score: 4

1967: The Crowd Called Out for More

 1 — The Royal Guardsmen: "Snoopy vs. the Red Baron"

 8 — The Seekers: "Georgy Girl"

 4 — The Buckinghams: "Kind of a Drag"

 7 — The Spencer Davis Group: "Gimme Some Lovin'"

 4 — The Supremes: "Love Is Here and Now You're Gone"

 3 — Johnny Rivers: "Baby I Need Your Lovin'"

10 — The Beatles: "Penny Lane"

 3 — The Monkees: "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You"

 2 — Young Canada Singers: "Canada"

 4 — Nancy Sinatra and Frank Sinatra: "Somethin' Stupid"

 9 — The Spencer Davis Group: "I'm a Man"

 6 — The Who: "Happy Jack"

 1 — The Happenings: "I Got Rhythm"

 8 — The Young Rascals: "Groovin'"

 5 — The Mamas and the Papas: "Creeque Alley"

 8 — Jefferson Airplane: "Somebody to Love"

 9 — The Turtles: "She'd Rather Be with Me"

 4 — Music Explosion: "Little Bit O' Soul"

 6 — The Association: "Windy"

 2 — The 5th Dimension: "Up, Up and Away"

10 — Jefferson Airplane: "White Rabbit"

 8 — Procol Harum: "A Whiter Shade of Pale"

 8 — The Monkees: "Pleasant Valley Sunday"

 7 — The Beatles: "All You Need Is Love"

 4 — The Young Rascals: "A Girl Like You"

 8 — Bobbie Gentry: "Ode to Billie Joe"

 3 — Eric Burdon and the Animals: "San Franciscan Nights"

 7 — The Box Tops: "The Letter"

 8 — Lulu: "The Boat That I Row"

 2 — Paul Revere and the Raiders: "I Had a Dream"

 4 — The Association: "Never My Love"

 6 — The Young Rascals: "How Can I Be Sure"

 5 — The Doors: "People Are Strange"

 9 — Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell: "Your Precious Love"

 7 — The Cowsills: "The Rain, the Park and Other Things"

 4 — Bobby Vinton: "Please Love Me Forever"

 3 — Spanky and Our Gang: "Lazy Day"

 6 — The Monkees: "Daydream Believer"

 5 — The Beatles: "Hello, Goodbye"

1967 is yet another year of ups and downs. I suppose that's how we ought to describe every year really. But what's different about this crop of RPM number ones is that it's starting to feel inevitable, as though the big players were starting to turn away from singles in favour of albums, allowing the bubblegum pop groups to fill the void. The British Invasion acts have either moved on or they've faded away — or they found better things to be getting on with.

Significantly as well, it appears that The Beatles' dominance was beginning to wane. In '66, they had four number one hits, all with scores of either 8 or 9. They started off '67 with faculties intact and raging on the extraordinary "Penny Lane" but then began to decline with the anthemic but still rather ordinary "All You Need Is Love" and then closed out the year with their weakest single to date "Hello, Goodbye". While their albums still kept them well above the pack, their singles now had difficulty up against some seriously modest competition.

The American bubblegum boom carries over into '68 and beyond. With a couple of notable exceptions, I don't have high hopes for the year ahead. If anything, '67's rather sad average score of 5.59 might suddenly seem a little more impressive. Still, I'm open to being proved wrong. There is at least one entry coming that I haven't heard before which I am leaving until just prior to writing my review and perhaps it will be something of a banger. The bright side of not expecting much is there's not much chance I'll end up disappointed, right? Right???

The Beatles: "Hello, Goodbye"

December 23, 1967 (3 weeks)

Over the last few years The Beatles have really leaned into the trend of bleeding their archives dry. You could say this has always been a part of their post-breakup catalog but they've shown more restraint than many of their competitors even if this only amounts to little more than not shoving unwanted bonus tracks on CD reissues. But that all changed in 2017 when the Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band: 50th Anniversary Edition was released. As if to prove that this was no mere one off, a deluxe box for The White Album followed in '18 and then Abbey Road a year later. Then came Let It Be in 2021 and then they went out of sequence with Revolver a year after that.

As expected, Beatles' fans who are flush with cash aren't satisfied. The majority have been clamouring for a Rubber Soul set to come out but so far to no avail. Some have also noticed that a gap has been left: the post-Pepper period that covered the rest of '67 and the early part of '68 prior to their departure for India where they went to study Transcendental Meditation. The wilderness between the triumph of Pepper and the spooky, initial-signs-of-the-coming-break-up White Album — an interesting period to be sure but not their most creatively fruitful.

I will admit that I have considered purchasing the Pepper, White Album and Revolver box sets, though the hefty price tags and suspicion that I won't listen to them much has so far prevented me from doing so. Had I ended up picking all of them up, I could see myself getting the Abbey Road set as well, even if its current status as the consensus best Beatles' album ever baffles me. I don't think I would've been tempted at all by Let It Be but at least I can see why there'd be some interest, especially after Peter Jackson's Get Back docu-series. But a box set covering a handful of cast offs used primarily for the soundtracks to Magical Mystery Tour and Yellow Submarine? A hard pass from me — even if money was no object.

Of course, this is The Beatles we're talking about so this period isn't without its high spots with John Lennon's "I Am the Walrus" being the clear stand out. "The Fool on the Hill" is probably Paul McCartney's best track from this mini era but in truth there isn't much else to highly recommend. "Magical Mystery Tour" is fine if unremarkable. Tracks like "Baby You're a Rich Man" and "Your Mother Should Know" are under-written (Ian MacDonald described the former as having "a stoned sloppiness" to it which is hard to disagree with). "You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)" is good fun but utterly pointless. George Harrison's "It's All Too Much" combines some terrific acid rock with his usual grumpiness but it goes on for way too long. (Still, it's accurately titled) Do I even need to bring up bloody "All Together Now"?

As for "Hello, Goodbye", it is the first Beatles' hit that no one ever needed. You may like it but what does it add to their discography? If it didn't exist, would anyone miss it? The very fact that I'm now tempted to come to its defense with a "there's nothing wrong with it" is revealing in and of itself: apologizing for a so-so number from just about any other act is one thing but the Fabs never needed anyone to say their records were just okay prior to this one. McCartney sings it well but, again, this is the sort of observation that wouldn't need to be made had I been discussing, say, "All My Loving" or "Eleanor Rigby" instead. Beyond its almost innate ability to lodge its way into my head and then squat there indefinitely, I am indifferent. 

Still, even when they were loafing about, The Beatles were always fascinating and "Hello, Goodbye" is no exception. Just who is contradicting McCartney so much? One option is that it's about his fraught relationship with the actress Jane Asher. While the positive side of their romance is said to have inspired "And I Love Her" and "Here, There and Everywhere", the tumultuousness of their time together brought on much more pessimistic works such as "I'm Looking Through You", "You Won't See Me" and "For No One". Strangely, 1967 seems to have brought an end to McCartney's cycle of songs about her but "Hello, Goodbye" might be an exception. By this point, Macca was the only unmarried Beatle and its likely he was beginning to tire of singlehood. Asher was as committed to her career choices as his nibs was and so domesticity was never going to be easy. Not unlike "I'm Looking Through You" and "You Won't See Me", there's a sense that McCartney is unable to communicate, that she is simply there to shoot down every one of his ideas.

That said, Macca could just as easily have been describing his loggerheads with longtime songwriting partner and close friend John Lennon. Only a few months' earlier, the "cute one" had been recording a song with the line "it's getting better all the time" while the so-called "smart one" (more like 'smart-ass one', am I right?) would come in with the rejoinder of "it couldn't get much worse". "Getting Better" comes from the Pepper sessions when things were rosy between the two but by the end of the year some troubles had begun to set in. Chiefly, the death of manager Brian Epstein at the end of that August left The Beatles with a hole that they'd never be able to fill. (For a group with a seemingly unlimited supply of 'fifth Beatles', it's rather fitting that so many within their camp were irreplaceable) Lennon would later complain bitterly about McCartney trying to take over the group but who else was going to do it at the time? With all this in mind, it's not inconceivable that John would have provided a stinging opposition to just about anything Paul suggested, even if just for the sake of it.

The three weeks at the top enjoyed by The Beatles with "Hello, Goodbye" proved to be their longest stay at number one in Canada since all the way back in the early part of 1964 when Beatlemania reigned supreme and when the CHUM chart allowed for lengthier stays at the summit. Similarly, the single spent no less than seven weeks atop the UK singles chart, which is tied for their longest spell at number one with 1963's "From Me to You". And, yet, it's the first Fab Four single that isn't all that great. This won't even be the last time that a light but inconsequential McCartney number would charm the pants off enough people to give it an extended stay on top — as a matter of fact, it would happen on a regular basis during his up-and down solo career. Fortunately, we'll be able to appreciate the full genius of Paul McCartney before he starts getting on our nerves again.

Score: 5

The Monkees: "Daydream Believer"

December 16, 1967 (1 week)

In preparing this review, I became aware that "Daydream Believer" had been altered and had become a compromised facsimile of what its songwriter, John Stewart, had intended. Mind you, only one word had been changed but it meant enough that Stewart was unhappy, arguing that the line it had been used in no longer made any sense. But then, as Tom Breihan has pointed out, he ceased complaining when the royalty cheques started coming in. (It's safe to say he's made a good living from just this one hit)

The line had originally been "you once thought of me as a white knight on a steed, now you know how funky I could be" but then it was changed to "...now you know how happy I could be". In a song supposedly about a young man coming to terms with the end of a relationship, I can understand why Stewart wasn't terribly thrilled. Still, funky? A song that with a serious groove or something that smells bad? I guess it was meant to be the latter: he was once a perfect boyfriend and now all his flaws have been exposed, presumably including farting in bed, toxic morning breath, B.O., poor hygiene and/or smelly feet (but not limited to them).

I must say, I never noticed the fact that the line doesn't make sense. I don't know about you but I don't look to The Monkees for lyrical thoughtfulness. "Daydream Believer" has enough going for it that the word salad lyrics never harmed it — that is until now. Having been exposed to the words having been changed has opened up a (stinky) can of worms. 

The narrative goes as follows: guy reluctantly gets up one morning and groggily gets himself ready for a day he doesn't want to face. The chorus comes in which establishes that there's some serious depression. Then, there's the bit about him letting her down because of his heretofore unforeseen stank which leads him to reflect about some shit that I don't care about. The chorus returns and then comes back following an instrumental break and that's about it. Oh, what can it mean...indeed.

As I say though, "Daydream Believer" is saved by just about anything other than the clumsy words and very incomplete story. The tune is very nice, all chilled out horns and Bachrach-esque melody. Peter Tork's childlike piano part makes for a sweet opener and pairs well with the boyish vocals of the boyish Davy Jones. The British transplant hadn't done much to aid the awful "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You" but his heartfelt delivery here manages to just about overcome the faulty lyrics.

The Monkees were in charge of their musical destiny but their continued reliance on outside songwriters to keep the hits coming held them back and may have even played a part in their inevitable decline. While it must have seemed at the time like they were never going to go away, it turns out they were just about done. They just had one more RPM chart topper to left in them.

Score: 6

Spanky and Our Gang: "Lazy Day"

December 9, 1967 (1 week)

Extolling the virtues of sloth is something very few in pop are able to accurately convey. John Lennon did it very well in many of his songs both with The Beatles and in his solo career. Belle and Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch had a couple of moments as well. Otherwise, the vast majority manage to miss the point. Take Otis Redding's excellent "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay": it's about a moment of respite that the singer clearly relished but that's all there is to it. It's great that pop stars are able to have fleeting moments to themselves but that sort of tells you all you need to know about the state of their lives: if they knew anything about being a good-for-nothing layabout then they never would have made it in the first place.

This is the first of many knocks to level against Spanky and Our Gang's "Lazy Day". Like Redding's "Dock of the Bay", it is about a one off bit of fun in the midst of a bunch of ageing folk music veterans hard at the task of finally making it. I may not like them but I'll respect the facct that they worked diligently at their craft and were entitled to a break along the way. It may be cliche-ridden and painfully cheesy but if that's how they enjoyed spending their rare bits of free time then who am I to begrudge them anything? Except that they don't know a thing about true blue laziness.

So, The Cowsills managed to make sunshine pop work but what about their competitors? As with most genres, the results are a mixed bag: The Seekers' "Georgy Girl" is excellent but The 5th Dimension's "Up, Up and Away" is lousy. What's strange about this, though, is that there seems to be a fine line between the two, with very little by way of all right or indifferent sunshine pop records to choose from.

Before I get to why I don't like "Lazy Day", I'd like to discuss how old the members of Spanky and Our Gang were which is a bit of a red flag. Guitarist and backing singer Nigel Pickering — who somehow wasn't British in spite of his name — is the one who really shifted the median here: he was thirty-eight years old in 1967. (Fun fact: he was a few months older than two of my grandparents; I admit this is only a fun fact if you happen to be a member of my family and mostly only on my mum's side at that) The rest of the band's original lineup was in their twenties but they still weren't exactly spring chickens in the world of pop music. At an average age of twenty-eight, they were older than your typical group.

But why is this a red flag? Well, first there's the name. Spanky and Our Gang? How were they not a quintet of twelve-year-olds who look like they'd been dragged in off the street? Couldn't this bunch of struggling folk musicians have thought of something better — or, failing that, just a mundane 'The Spanky McFarlane 5' or 'Spanky's Hoedown Minstrels'? I know that this was '67 when rock groups were taking on ever more eccentric names, many of which harked back to travelling medicine shows and the like from the days of yore but a tip of the hat to The Little Rascals doesn't go back nearly far enough.

More significantly, their advanced years do not do "Lazy Day" any favours. All this cumulative life experience and all these geezers have to offer is "blue skies, sunshine..." and all that crap? Granted, they didn't write it but that only brings up another issue: they weren't good enough to write this shit? All they could do was perform it as earnestly as possible which only makes the trite lyrics even that much more difficult to swallow.

I could go on but I'm a really lazy bastard and I want to wrap this sucker up. Let's just finish by trying to work out why it is that some sunshine pop songs work well while others suck something awful. "Georgy Girl" is addictive and you'd struggle to find a song that is as charming. "The Rain, the Park and Other Things" presents an almost "Strawberry Fields Forever" or "Penny Lane" type dream presented by a clean-cut family act. By contrast, "Up, Up and Away" wills the listener into an escape but offers them nothing to imagine or dream of along the way. "Lazy Day", which admittedly is a slightly better song, has some images but doesn't tell us anything about how we got there. The first two have relatable scenarios; the other two just expect you to go along with them. I, for one, am not interested. Plus, I'm too damn lazy anyway. 

Score: 3

Bobby Vinton: "Please Love Me Forever"

December 2, 1967 (1 week)

I recently watched a YouTube video titled "50s Stars Who Tried to Adapt to the Psychedelic 60s". Clocking in at just under twenty-five minutes, it is seemingly a comprehensive overview of those poor souls who had been on top a decade earlier only to see their fortunes go down the drain with the rise of Beatlemania. Most of the individuals involved — Del Shannon, Bobby Darin, Bobby Vee — were met with critical acclaim with their varied takes on acid rock  and/or baroque pop but sales tended to be disappointing. The bulk of them ended up fading away still further into the cabaret circuit and/or further obscurity.

Respect to Bobby Vinton, then, for not changing one iota over the years. His drippy balladeering had provided him with untold wealth and fame and he wasn't about to give it all up by dawning a flowery shirt, growing out his hair and flashing a peach sign. You don't become the Polish Prince by pretending to court the Woodstock generation.

Respect? Sure. Lots of it in fact. But does it save "Please Love Me Forever" any? No, not at all. At best, it's possible that since the gap between his stream of number ones had begun to widen, that it was becoming more difficult to get sick of him but, again, this doesn't say anything either way about this particular single. As befitting a guy who refused to change with the times, it's just more of the same.

More of the same like "Blue Velvet" perhaps? No, I'm afraid not. While an improvement on the nadir of "L-O-N-E-L-Y", it is more in the mid-range of not quite insufferable but still fairly shit Vinton numbers like "Roses Are Red (My Love)" and "Mr. Lonely". Graded on a curve, it would do fairly respectably but held up against sixties' pop it does significantly less well. While as trite as ever, it is saved (a bit) by a stronger than normal vocal performance. Vinton could sometimes sound timid, as though his vulnerabilities might pull at the heartstrings of the fair sex, but here he has a more confident delivery. Less of a sickening plea and more a plea with a veiled threat ("If I should die before I wake / I'll come back for you / That's no mistake...").

"Please Love Me Forever" was Vinton's fifth Canadian number one, no mean feat considering some of the heavyweights (The Everly Brothers, The Rolling Stones) who had yet to notch a similar total. Will he be back for a sixth or even a seventh RPM chart topper? I have no idea and, frankly, I'd rather not know. Surprise me. But I do have one request: if you must keep 'em coming, Bobby, then just keep sticking to what you know. No one wants you going acid rock or country rock or (shudder) disco.

Score: 4

The Cowsills: "The Rain, the Park and Other Things"

November 18, 1967 (2 weeks)

Broke, miserable and with nothing else on the horizon, I returned to work for a spell at a cafe located inside the Calgary hospital in which I was born twenty-six years earlier. I wasn't going to be there for long as I had been determined to return to Asia early in the New Year. It was the same job I'd had a couple years' earlier but I wasn't the same. I resented having to be there and I no doubt did a terrible job of hiding it. I deserved better.

One afternoon near the end of my shift, I saw an older gentleman in a wheelchair trying to get our attention. Customers had to ascend a small set of stairs in order to enter the cafe properly so there were often less mobile individuals we had to serve specially. I gestured to him and informed my co-workers that I'd handle it. I went down the steps and approached him.

"Hi, Mr. Cowsill, what can I get you?"

I daresay interacting with Billy Cowsill in Calgary, Alberta in the early 2000s wasn't an uncommon occurrence. I had in fact spoken to him a few months' earlier at a different cafe after he overheard me talking about my then favourite Beatles' song. (He admitted he'd never heard of anyone who thought the Fab Four never topped George Harrison's "Long, Long, Long") I had also seen him at the Calgary Folk Club with his band The Co-Dependents. Billy always seemed to be around. Even still, an encounter with a pop legend was one that I was not going to take for granted. I got him a coffee and muffin (on the house though I sure as hell didn't pay for it!) and went back behind the counter.

"That guy was once on The Ed Sullivan Show," I said to a co-worker who (bless her) tried to make it look like she cared.

~~~~~

Though Bill and Bob were already capable, it was decided that in order for The Cowsills to have a hit, they would have to rely on outside songwriters. Still, the duo of Artie Kornfeld and Steve Duboff could compose to order. Thus, "The Rain, the Park and Other Things" was written with the family group in mind. One might have expected little more than candy floss pop — and it sure sounds like it at first — but there is something subversive to their breakthrough smash.

Being marketed as a family group and now with their mother Barbara a full fledged member to join Bill, Bob, Barry and John (and with a rather controlling father Bud in a management role), clashed with the musical ambitions of the older boys. Then, younger siblings Paul and Susan began to be added to the lineup as well. With everyone in the group sharing the same surname, it was probably natural that they would have had a clean cut image. Yet, to have a single all about falling for a 'flower girl' was a statement, even if rather subtle one.

This flower girl in "The Rain, the Park and Other Things" represents an independence that The Cowsills wouldn't fully enjoy during their period as a chart act. Yet in spite of family pressures and an embarrassing advertising campaign for the milk industry, it was the countercultural elements that gave them their biggest hits. On the other hand, it was the contradiction of being into psychedelic rock while carrying around the image of a milquetoast all-American family that made them interesting. They would've been boring and predictable as a straightforward pop group and utterly unconvincing had they attempted to look like hippies — even if this wouldn't stop them from trying — so the end result was probably the closest thing to happy medium that we would get.

It's light but "The Rain, the Park..." makes for a highly enjoyable three minutes of listening. It is one of the finest examples of baroque pop from the era and a significant step up from many of the American bubblegum groups that had emerged during the course of 1967 (a scene which many would be forgiven for assuming The Cowsills to have been a part). Their augmented lineup of Mother Cowsill and a pair of little Cowsills ought to have detracted from the summer of love spirit so prized by Billy and Bob but they provide a fuller sound and maybe even a sprinkle of childlike wonder. In any case, has sunshine pop ever been so sunny?

~~~~~

The time I served an ailing Billy Cowsill at the Foothills Hospital has stayed with me, especially after his death just three years' later. I had been feeling entitled to the life that had been denied me up that point. I was lazy, didn't chase after what I wanted and squandered opportunities. But to look at this one-time rock star who had been through an awful lot since the spotlight had been turned off, I could see that very few of us get that life we think we are owed. He'd had a rough go of it with his controlling father, drug addiction and even a spell of homelessness and now he was broken down by life while still only in his mid-fifties.

But the young man who sang lead vocals on "The Rain, the Park and Other Things" was still there. Still rather gangly (when he wasn't either hunched over or in a wheelchair) and with that slightly crooked smile, he looked faintly like The Band's Robbie Robertson. His impeccable manners were present and correct (when my mother met him, he introduced himself as "Bill Cowsill, ma'am", even though he was about three years her senior). Similarly, his devotion to music had never gone astray. One's life might have fairytale moments but that doesn't necessarily mean there will be a fairytale ending. Nevertheless, Billy Cowsill kept going right on to the bitter end.

Score: 7

Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell: "Your Precious Love"

November 11, 1967 (1 week)

She was only getting started and yet it was already the beginning of the end. The photogenic Tammi Terrell was just twenty-two years old and had only just begun recording with Marvin Gaye. "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" gave them their first hit together. But then on the night of October 14, 1967, she collapsed into the arms of her partner while they were on stage in while performing a concert at a university in rural Virginia. The song they were in the midst of dueting on was "Your Precious Love".

I had long known about Terrell's tragically brief life and recording career but I always assumed that the night she passed out as a result of a brain tumor was only just before her untimely death. In fact, she endured an extended period of treatment, worsening health and sporadic recording sessions for close to three years before she met her end. She carried on as best as she could with the not yet volatile Gaye being her anchor. The pair even recorded "Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing" the following year, giving them a third classic duet on the bounce.

The 'Ain'ts' ("...No Mountain High Enough" and "...Nothin' Like the Real Thing" respectively) have remained fixtures of the Motown sound ever since the sixties but the hit they bookend isn't as well remembered. "Your Precious Love" failed to make it on to the utterly brilliant Hitsville U.S.A. Motown box set back in 1992 even though compilers felt the need to make room for the nondescript Syreeta Wright number "I Can't Give Back the Love I Feel for You" instead. As a Canadian, I'm happy they included Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers' "Does Your Mama Know About Me" but it too is not in the same league as Gaye and Terrell at their very best. (Still, at least "Does Your Mama Know..." was a hit which is more than can be said for Wright's contribution)

Not as immediate as either of the 'Ain'ts', the charms of "Your Precious Love" do not fully reveal themselves until it's been heard three or four times. Motown founder Berry Gordy had pushed for Gaye to become the label's male sex symbol but, as Ian MacDonald points out in his mostly harsh essay on the singer, he only really fitted into this role in a pairing. Even then, it's the jauntier singles - along with the 'Ain'ts', his memorable duet with Kim Weston "It Takes Two", also included on Hitsville U.S.A. - do not do this position justice. It is only beginning with "Your Precious Love" that Marvin Gay the Ladies Man arrives. As MacDonald argues, much of what Gaye recorded in the seventies was under the influence of cocaine which reduces love to lust; as such, his work with Terrell is a rare case of Marvelous Marvin in romance mode. (A very different side of his feelings did end up on the extraordinary but notorious divorce album Here, My Dear which, sadly though unsurprisingly, came from a time of unaccustomed unpopularity)

With many of her colleagues bellowing out in full gospel mode around this time — including Gladys Knight with "I Heard It Through the Grapevine", a future solo hit for Marvin Gaye — Terrell is closer to Diana Ross' brand of  delicate vocals, though not quite as fragile sounding. With her precarious health, her delivery becomes rather poignant, as if she wasn't physically capable of utilizing a much fuller range. Rather than the two them trading lines, he takes first verse, the two of them take the chorus together and she solos just after that. It's almost as if they spliced their parts together from separate sessions. Yet, it sounds far less contrived than your typical back-and-forth duet. With all due respect to former partners Weston and Mary Wells, Gaye never sounded so fluid than when he was paired with Terrell.

Not surprisingly, this review is a a one and done for Tammi Terrell. Rather more unexpectedly, Marvin Gaye won't be coming along again in this blog for quite some time. Such apparently sure fire number ones as "I Heard It Through the Grapevine", "What's Going On", "Mercy, Mercy Me", "Let's Get It On", "I Want You", and "Got to Give It Up" all came up short. (While the rest all ended up becoming sizable hits in Canada, it is a travesty that "What's Going On" and "I Want You" only peaked at numbers seventy-six and forty-five respectively) In bypassing his peak, my reviews will only cover his early period in which he specialized in duets and his brief early eighties' commercial renaissance. Where once he had been a reliable partner for the ailing Terrell, he lacked similar stability in during his mental decline. He may have professed the benefits of Sexual Healing but what he really needed was some of that Precious Love they once sang of so beautifully.

Score: 9

The Doors: "People Are Strange"

November 4, 1967 (1 week)

As a young music obsessive, I was aware that many people once revered Jim Morrison. I didn't myself but I could certainly see why many remained interested in him twenty years after his death. The guy had incredible charisma (though it certainly helped that his bandmates had none whatsoever), the sort of person you couldn't look away from even if you wanted to do nothing more. He also embodied the romance of the doomed rock star: he lived the lifestyle to its fullest and then paid the ultimate price for it. He had lots of hits, lots of sex and took boatloads of drugs yet still remained this deeply profound poet and visionary: who wouldn't have wanted to be Jim fucking Morrison?

All this was confirmed in Oliver Stone's 1991 biopic The Doors and, yet, this motion picture provided the seeds for the coming backlash. Wait, he was a disgusting pervert? He treated virtually everyone around him like shit? He wasn't much of a poet and visionary and was by and large an intellectual fraud? He threw his life away? Apparently, there were all these secrets about the so-called Lizard King (oh yeah, I just thought of another one: He gave himself a really pathetic nickname?) that had been hiding in plain sight all along.

As a result, there probably isn't a more divisive group in the annals of rock. (Even the likes of Led Zeppelin and U2 can't compare) The bulk of the fallout though seems to come down to the public being turned off by what a grotesque pig Morrison had always been rather than the quality of their work. Where once there had been somewhat exaggerated claims that their entire discography went from strength to strength, now there are those who are convinced that there's next to nothing of value in their surprisingly hefty back catalog. (Six albums in just over four years is a solid work rate for any band, let alone one led by a shamanist seeker dirtbag)

The big problem I have (particularly for this blog) is that The Doors were always an albums act. I'm quite fond of their self-titled debut as well as their grubby masterpiece Morrison Hotel and Morrison's posthumous swan song LA Woman. The others have never done much for me but fans seem to be split pretty evenly among all of them. The singles, however, seldom paint much of a picture of the group at their very best or even at their most relevant. Near-miss number one "Light My Fire" is the one real exception to this rule but, otherwise, their 45s are either remarkably slight or aren't catchy enough to be single material.

"People Are Strange" is more of the latter than the former. The melody and refrain are memorable enough but it's rather weird that it just cranks from verse to chorus and back again with nothing else to pad it out, not even a much needed bridge. I suppose once you've elaborated on people being strange there's not much more to be said on the matter. And I suspect that Morrison and his cohorts knew there wasn't much to it as they wisely kept it down to an economical two minutes and fifteen seconds. While Echo and the Bunnymen's version from the soundtrack to eighties cult classic The Lost Boys has its merits — mostly due to singer Ian McCulloch sounding far more vampiric than Morrison ever could — their decision to tack on an extra ninety seconds of superfluousness doesn't do their recording any favours.

Needless to say, Jim Morrison was a deeply strange individual so his perspective ought to have been ideal for such a song. Rather than tackling it head on though, a much better understanding of his peculiarities can be found in his work as a whole and the messed up life he led. He didn't need to tell us about how strange he was since everyone had already guessed.

Score: 5

~~~~~

Can Con

Over on the CHUM chart, there have been a handful of unique number one hits with Canadian acts Lords of London (who I really ought to have covered in this space but for my neglectful ways) and The Ugly Ducklings. It seems homegrown acts stood a better chance on the hit parade in the Metro Toronto region rather than Canada as a whole. The Ducklings have already been reviewed by me but "Gaslight" proved to be by far their biggest national hit — and it's a step up from previous entry "Nothin'". I was immediately struck by some proto-metal chords at the beginning which led me to wonder if they were the missing link between garage rock and the heavier stuff that really began to take off in the early seventies. Strange that more of the garage rockers never went in the direction of metal - either that or maybe that's exactly what many of them did only we choose not to examine them as such. Power is a good word to describe "Gaslight" and I can certainly imagine young men who'd later from Trooper, Helix and Platinum Blondes hearing this and getting some ideas in their heads. Influential or not, "Gaslight" is a worthy Top 20 hit. It's just a pity they won't be coming up again.

The Young Rascals: "How Can I Be Sure"

October 28, 1967 (1 week)

I haven't been mentioning many of the near number ones of late but there was one I was going to write about just the other day until I decided to save it for this review. Coming in just behind Paul Revere and the Raiders' ghastly "I Had a Dream" is a version of "Groovin'", a laid back chart topper from only four months' earlier. If anything, this recording by Booker T. and the MG's is even happier to kick back and relax. The famed house band for Memphis label Stax were the third finest quartet in the business (the two groups ahead of them, of course, were (in order) the Modern Jazz Quartet and The Beatles) and they were now entering a period in which they proved to be up for any standard they got their hands on. They already had a stellar Christmas album to their credit — the highlight being "Jingle Bells", which they might as well have called "You Can't Hurry Christmas" — as well as an astonishing "Summertime", perhaps the second best version of the Gershwin classic (George Shearing's is best). Coming up, they had Simon and Garfunkel and even a full album of Beatles' covers. The foursome wrote some fabulous instrumentals but they did just as well with cover versions.

I say all this not just so I can heap all sorts of praise upon Booker T. and the MG's (a group who won't be appearing in this space) but also so I can point out just how crazy Canadians were for anything connected to The Young Rascals. "How Can I Be Sure" was their third straight RPM number one and the fourth of eleven consecutive Top 10 hits. "Good Lovin'" and "Groovin'" had been such huge hits for the Rascals in many countries but they mostly struggled to recapture that level of success — the British had basically had their fill of them as soon as the latter had fallen out of the UK chart — but Canada bucked that trend.

I had been starting to agree with the folk in other territories especially after "A Girl Like You" proved so mind-numbingly boring. "It's this fence-sitting ordinariness that irks me," was how I finished off that particular review. How nice of them, then, to have been listening to this sad old blogger who happens to be writing nearly sixty years in the future! "How Can I Be Sure" doesn't completely work but at least they were attempting something new and even had a tune I could just about remember.

It's high time I gave some credit to the Rascal songwriting team of Felix Cavaliere and Eddie Brigati. I respect anyone who takes the example of The Beatles and actually tries out some creativity of their own. (Yeah, take that boring old power pop bands!) I mean, that's the whole point for god's sake! Cavaliere even admitted that "How Can I Be Sure" owed a lot to Paul McCartney's softer Fab Four hits like "Yesterday" and "Michelle". He needn't sell himself and Brigati short though: even if the end result is a little messy, there's plenty of sonic experimentation that surpasses those all-too-familiar hits. Sure, I'd still rather listen to "Michelle" but "How Can I Be Sure" isn't simply a product of The Beatles; rather, it's the result of taking proper inspiration from them.

The composition is rather good but it's debatable if The Young Rascals' original is even the best one out there. A suitably dramatic and sultry reading by Dusty Springfield was only a minor hit in the UK in 1970 but her vocal leaves Cavaliere's in the, well, dust. David Cassidy had considerably more success with it a couple years' later. His version is a little too melodramatic but it's hard to argue with the grandeur of the arrangement. (Notably, all three "major" renditions of "How Can I Be Sure" retain the distinctive concertina even if there's less of an overall Continental feel to the Dusty/Cassidy remakes) Indeed, it could be the limitations of being a pop quartet that holds it back from what its true potential.

All that said, I can't bring myself to score it beyond the 'slightly above average' range. For all its strengths, it's still rather unmoving. I admire the craft but fail to be that drawn to the end result. Good not great, as befits even the best Young Rascals hits that aren't the two everyone knows. That said, maybe my perception has been altered by the discovery that its inspiration was the result of Cavaliere dating a high school student when he was in his mid-twenties. How Can You Be Sure? Maybe it was her social studies homework that should've given you the answer.

Score: 6