The Zombies: "Time of the Season"

March 31, 1969 (1 week)

At a time when everyone else was in thrall to psychedelia and flower power, [insert sixties' band or artist's name here] went against the grain with a back to roots album that proved to be both acclaimed and highly influential.

I have never actually read the above statement verbatim but I might as well have. Certainly similar sentiments have been said about a lot of acts from the late sixties. Just off the top of my head, there's The Band, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Van Morrison, The Velvet Underground, The Byrds, Bob Dylan, The Beach Boys, Elvis Presley and The Kinks who were all credited with going against convention. (And there may well be others for all I know)

But wait. If all these people were deliberately going against the trends of the time, it begs the question: who the hell was still making psychedelic pop-rock by 1968 or '69? The Beatles, Stones and Byrds all got bored of it by that point and most of the others listed above hadn't had anything to do with it to begin with. And these were highly successful and/or influential acts who had been defining white popular music of that time. If there was a bandwagon to be jumped on it was the one promising a rootsy return.

To be sure, there were holdovers and/or late comers to acid rock by decade's end. Santana's self-titled debut combined psychedelic rock with the burgeoning jazz fusion along with Latino influences. The smash hit musical Hair brought tripping and hippie love to the Broadway stage. (More on what Hair did to the pop music scene in general very soon!) Tommy James and the Shondells had already had a Canadian number one earlier this year with the acid-soaked "Crimson and Clover". And then there was "Time of the Season", a certifiable classic of the genre.

Except The Zombies recorded their signature song — even if "She's Not There" makes a convincing case of its own — way back in September of 1967 at roughly the same time that psychedelic albums such as The Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour, The Byrds' The Notorious Byrd Brothers and Love's Forever Changes were also being worked on. They were hardly being contrary themselves. Though popular when it eventually came out, there were thoughts that the time for "Time of the Season" had already passed. ("They already seemed to be over," observes critic David Hepworth who admits to not being terribly interested in The Zombies at the time, a sentiment evidently shared by a surprisingly large number of Britons) The spirit of '68 brought about a newfound militancy in tracks like the Stones' "Street Fighting Man" and the Fab Four's "Revolution". Rock 'n' roll revivalism was everywhere. Could a song be less than two years old and already seem dated?

Fortunately, the militancy of '68 had gone on hiatus by the time 1969 rolled around. (Though considering this was also the year of Richard Nixon's first term, the Manson Family murders and the disastrous Altamont Festival, there still were troubles aplenty) John Lennon and Yoko Ono had only just done their first Bed In for peace and Woodstock was still months away so The Zombies suddenly had the jump on the competition by being so stuck in the past.

Any worries that "Time of the Season" would have failed to connect were soon put aside when it became a major hit (though, as I have already stated, not in The Zombies' native UK) and its subsequent status as an all time great of its era. It's easy to see why: it has a cool, mellow vibe soaked in a dense haze of incense and ganja and its chorus ("it's the time of the season for loving") is a charming throwback to the past without the feeling that we're being hectored like in Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth". Still, I want to love it but can only bring myself to like it quite a bit. One listen and it's absolutely brilliant but after several plays its slightness starts to reveal itself. It doesn't take long for the lyrics to start repeating. A more talented songwriter might added more meat to that bone. And in light of what Manson and a whole generation of ultra creepy cult leaders were getting up to, the verse of "what's your name? / who's your daddy?" starts to feel unsettling when it's stated a second time.

Even with all that said, I'll still take this over the bulk of that rootsy crap that was flooding the record shops and airwaves as the sixties began to draw to a close. I appreciate that they were all going against the grain at the exact same time but it took a slow burn hit recorded nearly two years earlier (oh and I haven't even gone into how The Zombies had broken up by this point with singer Colin Blunstone forced to take a job in insurance because he was so damn broke) to expose a harsh truth: the finest minds in rock could no longer be trusted to create some of the finest pop.

Score: 8

Tommy Roe: "Dizzy"

March 24, 1969 (1 week)

Perspective is everything. I first became aware of the song "Dizzy" when it was covered by British comedian Vic Reeves and popular grebo band The Wonder Stuff. I had been a fan of the "Stuffies" as a moody teenager and had been curious about this number one hit that they had seemingly out of nowhere at the end of 1991. It didn't seem to make it over to the other side of the Atlantic so it wouldn't be until around 1994 that I first heard it. Nevertheless, I was hooked. It was a curb stomping powerhouse of a record, the kind of thing could you dance to, pound your fist to, beat the crap out of someone to or just be a miserable sad sack to — and, if it was a particularly eventful day, you could do all of these things to it.

With all this in mind, approaching the original by Tommy Roe is a challenge. Far from the thrill ride racket of Reeves and the Stuffies, this "Dizzy" is laid back and hardly draws attention to itself. It is subtle. Roe sounds like a country singer who's had some good luck in his life for a change. It is only after a few listens that it becomes clear that he sounds dizzy. (The Reeves/Wonder Stuff cover does nothing of the sort, though it can make the listener feel this way — and I say this as someone who genuinely likes it) Roe's wooziness suddenly becomes something you can't not hear. It's as if he woke up from a concussion or a giant bender and was having trouble remembering his name. (Somehow he can still sing the lyrics to a song in this condition)

I appreciate all this about Roe's "Dizzy" but it still sounds like it needs a giant kick up the arse. While the singer communicates his stupor as well as can be expected, the studio musicians backing him let the side down with a puny effort, a child's Tonka truck when a genuine Jeep 4x4 was called for. This is what comes from too much reliance on the Wrecking Crew, a renowned studio band who turned in professional recordings on demand but who could seemingly phone it in when they didn't have a Phil Spector or a Brian Wilson to inspire and/or intimidate them. Being the best in the business (well, it was either them, Motown's Funk Brothers or Booker T. and the MG's out of the Memphis Studio) was all well and good but that didn't mean they were suited to back every solo artist in white American pop. Imagine what a garage rock group could've done with it instead of a bunch of Hollywood overachievers.

In short, Roe's "Dizzy" needs to sound much more like the Reeves/Wonder Stuff "Dizzy". It's likely that few thought so at the time but that's what a cover version that leaves a lasting impression can do. That said, a touch of dizziness wouldn't have hurt this remake either. Surely there's a happy medium and we're certainly due another prominent cover so if anyone's listening and is interested have at it. Or what about a clever mash up of the two? Are mash ups still a thing?

Score: 4

1910 Fruitgum Company: "Indian Giver"

March 17, 1969 (1 week)

That's right, "Indian Giver". Not "Cowboys and Indians" as recent history would have predicted. No, 1910 Fruitgum Company's tradition of performing odes to schoolyard frolics ends here. Could the ultimate bubblegum pop group have actually grown up? Perhaps they had, though you'd be advised not to seek out the artwork for their recent album of the same name.

Oh, so they've swapped childish things for casual racism then? Hey, nobody's perfect. Again, the cover art does them no favours but it's not as if they went all out on their latest hit with ululating war cries or anything. Okay, the percussion is rather tribal but that's as far as it goes, I swear!

The bubblegum acts seemed to operate in a world in which no one grows up, no one has a plan for the future and no one has a creative rebirth. This stands in contrast to modern day manufactured pop acts who eventually ditch the fun times and glorious hooks in order to have a depressing R&B phase that normally closes out a boy band or girl group's peak period. Growing up is necessary but only when it results in something worthwhile; otherwise, disposable pop acts are probably better off sticking to what they know. In other words, if you can't be like The Monkees or George Michael then don't bother trying.

Typically the nadir of a genre without much in the way of quality control, it was perhaps a good move on the part of the Fruitgums to move in a more mature direction. (I mean, mature for them) They actually sound like a serious pop-rock group on "Indian Giver". But do they sound like a passable pop-rock group?

In a way, they kind of do. Singer Mark Gutkowski has all the confidence of a jock bully in an eighties sex comedy — and, sadly, about as much charm — while the band plays with all the swagger of a Rolling Stones tribute act. (You'd be correct in describing these as backhanded compliments but for the fact that there's not even much in the way of my being complimentary) The character that "1,2,3, Red Light" had — such as it was — had vanished from their work. No longer irritating, 1910 Fruitgum Company had now developed to the point of becoming painfully boring instead.

The bubblegum groups were beginning to fade by the early part of 1969 so it may have seemed like the best possible option at the time but there was no way the progress of a hopeless band was going to end well. But, again, they might as well have stuck to their MO for as long as possible. Some older artists were even beginning to embrace bubblegum so there was still signs of life in the well-chewed, graying piece of Hubba Bubba yet.

Score: 2

Jay and the Americans: "This Magic Moment"

March 10, 1969 (1 week)

Up until now, I would have said that Jay and the Americans have been one of the pleasant surprises since starting this blog nearly two years ago. While I have no plans to ever listen to either "Come a Little Bit Closer" or "Cara Mia" again, they are by no means bad songs and it wouldn't have taken all that much for either of them to have been promoted into the 'Genuinely Excellent' range. Joining them there — had they done so, obviously — is "Let's Lock the Door (and Throw Away the Key)" which I have to say I'm still taken by. Was I overly generous with my score? No, I stand by it and, in fact, I'd even place it in the high end of the second highest tier along with the likes of "Runaway", "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" and "Born to Be Wild".

With all that out of the way, let's get to the fourth and final Jay and the Americans RPM number one, a cover of The Drifters' "This Magic Moment" which is uncharacteristically dreadful. The four years since their trio of Canadian chart toppers had been rough for the quintet. Vocal harmony groups gradually began to fade from the picture with even powerhouses The Beach Boys and Four Seasons being left behind by psychedelic and album orientated rock. They then doubled down, releasing a series of forgettable singles, including covers of Roy Orbison's "Crying" and the Rogers and Hammerstein classic "Some Enchanted Evening". While this approach was clearly doomed commercially, I admire them for sticking to what they knew. (Nothing's worse than a former crooner who starts tripping on acid rock) Returns diminished but they did manage to hold on to a loyal fanbase.

Yet, by 1969 things had changed somewhat in their favour. While pre-dating them by several years, Jay and the Americans seemed to fit in with the new crop of bubblegum acts that had grown out of the move on the part of more "serious" groups away from singles and towards albums. (They weren't the only teen pop act to enjoy a revival under bubblegum: Tommy Roe will be coming up very soon with a throwaway pop smash of his own) Where "Crying" and "Some Enchanted Evening" were met with indifference, their version of "This Magic Moment" suddenly had an audience willing to buy their store brand blue-eyed soul.

Where the original by The Drifters combines audacious strings, a warm mood, a lonely guitar, and Ben E. King's expressive vocals, Jay and the Americans apparently decided to turf all of these in favour of very little. It is almost impressive the way they sucked the life out of what was once a great song. They say that a cover version ought to top the original but, failing that, it should at least try something new. To their credit, there is something new here: unfortunately, it's a newfound sense of aimlessness, of a group clinging to what they once had by being as lifeless as possible. The original is a magic moment unto itself; this is an amateur magician telegraphing the trick he just learned on YouTube to a disinterested audience (yes, I am describing myself here).

And so ends the tale Jay and the Americans as a top chart act in Canada. Way to go out on a low note, fellas.

Score: 2

The Turtles: "You Showed Me"

March 3, 1969 (1 week)

The Byrds are, at least in the opinion of this humble blogger, the finest American rock group of all time. In terms of reinvention, they were second only to The Beatles (third if you also factor in jazz since they had that Miles Davis guy). They had at least four accomplished songwriters (Gene Clark, David Crosby, Chris Hillman and Gram Parsons). Roger McGuinn is one of the greatest guitarists of his generation. Their first six albums — Mr. Tambourine Man, Turn! Turn! Turn!, Fifth Dimension, Younger Than Yesterday, The Notorious Byrd Brothers and Sweetheart of the Rodeo — represents one of the most impressive LP hot streaks in music history. While they had more of their share of difficulties (increasingly low sales, in fighting, the usuals) they nevertheless went from strength to strength over the first four years as a going concern. Folk rock, psychedelic rock, country rock: The Byrds mastered them all.

And yet, The Turtles' "You Showed Me" is the closest thing we'll get to a Byrds single on this blog. "Mr. Tambourine Man" and "Turn! Turn! Turn!" had both topped the Billboard Hot 100 back in 1965 (with the former also reaching the top of the UK chart) but both fell just short on the RPM hit parade. Canadians were just about the only people with the good sense to take their brilliant and influential single "Eight Miles High" into the Top 10 (it struggled just about everywhere due to alleged drug references) but, otherwise, they never had any other major hits north of the border. That said, their creative peak coincided with a downturn in sales in seemingly every territory.

By 1969, the lineup of The Byrds had shifted dramatically, even by their standards. Longtime bassist and songwriter Chris Hillman had left to form the Flying Burrito Brothers with short-term Byrd Gram Parsons, leaving Roger McGuinn as the sole holdover from their glory years. Rather than having to choose between pursuing country music and reverting back to space-age acid rock, the singer-guitarist rather sensibly decided to do both for their seventh album, the stupidly named Dr. Byrds and Mr Hyde. (A bad title but appropriate given their dual musical nature) A total flop in North America, it nevertheless sold respectably in Britain. At around the same time, the Flying Burrito Brothers released their debut album The Gilded Palace of Sin, a critical smash which sold abysmally. (As Brian Eno once said, only 10,000 people bought the first Burrito album but everyone who did formed a country rock band and were fitted for Nudie suits) Meanwhile, Gene Clark put out the second of two stellar LPs with multi-instrumentalist Doug Dillard, which were similarly ignored by consumers. The only current or ex-Bryd who managed to have a hit recording that year was David Crosby with his newfound trio Crosby, Stills and Nash.

What the majority of these very talented individuals lacked was a strong and sustained pop vision, not unlike Paul McCartney. Clark and Hillman had written outstanding pop songs in their day ("I'll Feel a Whole Lot Better" and "Have You Seen Her Face?" respectively) but members of The Byrds were mainly preoccupied by folk, country, Indian raga, free jazz and 'Cosmic American Music' (whatever the hell that was supposed to be) to be concerned with something as trivial as pure pop. In fact, the album that became Sweetheart of the Rodeo had initially been pitched by McGuinn as a double album history of American music. While it's always possible some facsimile of Broadway and/or the Great American Songbook would have been included, it's rather revealing that they and other forms of twentieth century pop are never mentioned as being a part of it. McGuinn envisioned it opening with tracks harking back to Appalachian folk and early bluegrass before giving way to blues, country, jazz and rock and culminating with a futuristic leap into synthy space rock. Pop? I doubt it even crossed his mind.

The Clark/McGuinn co-write "You Showed Me" has that pop sensibility even if it was from a time when they were still developing. Not even particularly promising, their early demo is chiefly of historic interest. It is, therefore, something of an odd choice of cover version for The Turtles. "You Won't Have to Cry", "The World Turns All Around Her", "Renaissance Fair", and "Change Is Now" (among others) would have all made for smashing singles. It's possible, though, that The Turtles knew there was little that they could have added to them and next to no chance they'd even be able to equal such outstanding album deep cuts. They could, however, add plenty to a very basic cut like "You Showed Me".

Perhaps this is why there is a tasteful string section accompanying them. Or why there are hints of reggae, a genre The Byrds never touched. Or why they employ the use of a Moog synthesizer, an instrument that McGuinn and his on-again, off-again chums were familiar with. In some ways, it sounds like how The Byrds ought to have treated it, especially if it had ended up on the wide ranging Notorious Byrd Brothers. If The Byrds were instrumental in commercializing Bob Dylan, you might say that The Turtles, in turn, did everything they could to commercialize the now luckless Byrds.

Fascinatingly, The Turtles attempted all-encompassing study of American music just as The Byrds had planned to do in early 1968. As opposed to the jingle-janglers, though, the LA five piece of Howard Kaylan, Mark Volman, Al Nichol, Jim Pons, and Johnny Barbata actually got it completed, released at the end of '68 as The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands. They did so in taking on a series of alter egos in order to explore zany takes on surf rock, country, psychedelic, and even Hawaiian music. On "You Showed Me" they transformed into Nature's Children, a group of nudists (which explains the sleeve above: easy ladies). Not only did they add some much needed musical textures but they turned a simple song of young love on its head and into an ode to exhibitionists. You showed him all right.

Score: 8

The Foundations: "Build Me Up Buttercup"

February 24, 1969 (1 week)

You may not know this but "Build Me Up Buttercup" has a connection to The Wonder Years. "Big deal!" you may be saying to yourself — or, indeed, out loud if you're anything like me — "half the songs from the sixties were used in that show". True but this is not the connection I was looking for. As a matter of fact, The Foundations' second major hit doesn't seem to have been included in an episode of the narrated, nostalgia-fueled sitcom. (And, yes, I looked it up) No, the link I am referring to is that one of its co-writers is one Mike D'Abo, father of British actress Olivia D'Abo, who played main character Kevin Arnold's free-spirited older sister Karen.

Even still, it is a little strange that "Build Me Up Buttercup" never appeared in The Wonder Years. It's easy to imagine Kevin and longtime on-again, off-again girlfriend Winnie Cooper having some of their awkward encounters soundtracked by this classic. Or the geeky Paul Pfeiffer being in a relationship with a girl who is way out of his league, knows it and is treating him accordingly. Or just as a way for a key actor on the show to get some more royalties for her dad.

The Foundations had already topped the RPM chart a year earlier with "Baby, Now That I've Found You", a Motown derived pop smash. Not wishing to be as formulaic as the record label they had aped, "Buttercup" is distinctly poppier, edging ever so close to bubblegum. But this is more than a simple departure, they scarcely sound like the same group. No doubt this is aided by The Foundations having replaced original lead singer Clem Curtis with Colin Young but the biggest factor is with their intentional or unintentional influence of the likes of Jay and the Americans, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Paul Revere and the Raiders and even — yikes — 1910 Fruitgum Company. If their breakthrough smash represented this multiracial group's black contingent, their second major hit sounds about as white as can be.

Still, this isn't necessarily a bad thing. Bubblegum pop isn't for me but there were clearly many who were fond of it back in the late sixties. It's a little more surprising given that the British weren't nearly as receptive to bubblegum as North Americans (and, in particular, Canadians) were but in a way that makes me a little more open to this. I had always assumed The Foundations to be an American group and, if anything, this was made even clearer with "Buttercup" than it had been on "Now That I've Found You". With so many UK groups of the era trying to out-English each other, it's kind of refreshing to see some good old fashioned Brits trying to sound like Americans in their pop — which, I guess, gives it another loose association with Wonder Years star Olivia D'Abo, the English actress who we all figured to have been as American as the character she played.

A score of 6 is basically 'high mediocre' and I think this describes "Build Me Up Buttercup" perfectly. This is not a song you need in your life and if it had never existed we'd never feel any reason to invent it. And yet, it's far too enjoyable to be dispensed with entirely. Joyous songs with a dark heart are pop's bread and butter and while it's hardly ABBA's "Knowing You, Knowing Me", there are worse ways to spend three minutes of your life — and I can even tolerate the subsequent five hours it takes to get the damn thing out of my head.

Score: 6

Brooklyn Bridge: "Worst That Could Happen"

February 17, 1969 (1 week)

("Worst That Could Happen" brings the total number of Jimmy Webb compositions to reach number one in Canada to four. The others are "Up, Up and Away", "MacArthur Park" and "Wichita Lineman". Yes, one of these is not like the others)

(Which one am I referring to? Well, even though I do not care for "Up, Up and Away" one bit, at least it has a familiarity to it. The same goes for "MacArthur Park" and "Wichita Lineman": like 'em or not, a Webb song should leave its mark on the public. We can crap all over "I'll never have that recipe again" but we remember it which is a triumph in and of itself)

(But "Worst That Could Happen" is incredibly plain, even for a milquetoast songwriter like Webb)

(Also, "Worst That Could Happen"? Shouldn't it really be "The Worst That Could Happen" or even "(It's the) Worst That Could Happen"? I notice that on The 5th Dimension's superior original it is indeed credited as the former so they got the song right in more ways than one; "Worst That Could Happen" just seems lazy)

(Speaking of which, they may not have done much with "Up, Up and Away" but The 5th Dimension's version of this isn't too bad. The singing is much better but anything would be an improvement on the phlegmy vocals of Brooklyn Bridge leader Johnny Maestro; have I ever mentioned how much I hate it when singers sound like they just drank a great big glass of milk?)

(Did you know that the word for an eleven piece group is a 'hendectet'? You may also use the term 'undectet' but I'd rather not since it sounds like an organization that is specifically not a dectet (a ten piece); I'm surprised no one went with 'eleptet', unless that happens to be the word used for a musical act comprised entirely of elephants)

(These Brooklyn Bridge people were smart to exploit Webb's notoriety at the time. It really tells you about his nibs' songwriting imperial period that this nothing of a song could do so well even when record by an even bigger nothing of a band. Talent borrows, genius steals and hopelessness leaches off others)

Score: 3

The Doors: "Touch Me"

February 10, 1969 (1 week)

For a major act of their era, The Doors didn't exactly reel off a string of big hits. They would only have four Top 10 hits in Canada during Jim Morrison's lifetime (with a fifth, "Riders on the Storm", posthumously reaching number seven). Basically, the songs the average person would most likely know were the ones that put them over the top. "Light My Fire"? Check. "People Are Strange"? Check? "Hello, I Love You"? Check.

There was, however, a fourth and it just so happens to be the subject of this review. While "Touch Me" did very well in its day, it didn't seem to withstand the test of time the way its fellow Doors' hits did. While it has reliably popped up on their many compilation albums over the years, radio stations devoted to sixties' music have largely ignored it. Even less sizable hits like "The Unknown Soldier" and "Riders on the Storm" seem better remembered nowadays.

Far be it from being a mere afterthought, though, "Touch Me" is arguably their finest single. The band delivers a powerhouse performance that seems to bridge the more progressive elements of then current album The Soft Parade with the gritty Morrison Hotel, which would be released the following year. Not chiefly written by Jim Morrison, it is mercifully devoid of the Lizard King's faux-shamanist musings; instead, guitarist Robby Krieger wrote a song that brought out the best in the group's charismatic frontman with some wonderfully lovelorn lyrics that are also just a little bit lecherous. For his part, Morrison delivers an exceptional performance with a bandmate's material — which offers proof that Doors' songs tended to be better as either group collaborations or when someone other than their singer wrote them.

As an aside in his review of "Hello, I Love You", Tom Breihan observes that "Touch Me" "sounds a lot like Tom Jones". Now, he didn't point out that this was a bad thing but it kind of feels like that is what he had in mind. (Breihan says he would have given it a score of 5 had it been a number one on the Hot 100 so it's not as if he was enamoured by it or anything) If you compare Jim Morrison to Tom Jones then you aren't been complimentary. To this, however, I say two things: (a) Morrison sounds a bit like Jones — not a lot like him — and the strings and horns aren't that prominent for there to be much of a musical connection and (b) yeah, so? Morrison being akin to a Las Vegas lounge singer might seem funny but there's a dark heart to many balladeers. (Though Tom Jones isn't really one of them) Whether he was tapping into this tradition is anyone's guess but in any case it is nowhere near as out of place as it might seem.

Within the medium of the 45" single, The Doors never sounded so thrilling. More to the point, they never sounded so much like The Doors. Morrison takes command with his powerful voice, Kreiger plays some frantic Bo Diddley rhythm guitar, Ray Manzarek holds the fort on organ and John Densmore makes his case as his era's most overlooked drummer. Curtis Amy's tenor sax near the end almost doesn't need to even be there yet he fits in seamlessly, perhaps the closest thing to a fifth Door. Convinced that there can't possibly be bass in there - they never had a bassist of their own, you know - it's startling to discover that jazz great Harvey Brooks was a part of the rhythm section. If a more fleshed out Doors sounds unappealing to purists, then give this a listen and you might just be forced to acknowledge just how well the guests blend in.

"Touch Me" brings the story of The Doors to an end on this blog. Never quite a singles band, they truly thrived with album, putting out a series of successful and mostly acclaimed LPs until Morrison's death in 1971. (Officially, he died of heart failure but I think it's safe to say living Jim Morrison's life was what led to his early expiration) Their legend continued but now their reputation is much more mixed. Morrison being a pig and a fake visionary makes it easy to take the side of Doors detractors but their music cannot be denied. While their output is rather inconsistent, there weren't many groups who could touch The Doors when they were at their best. To wit.

Score: 9

Tommy James and the Shondells: "Crimson and Clover"

February 3, 1969 (1 week)

It's a point I'm going to go into in more detail before long but psychedelic rock was a passing fad. Garage rockers from California — particularly in the Bay Area — had begun fooling around with substances and their adrenaline suddenly mellowed. Then, everyone else picked up on it and tried it out for themselves. Well, not quite everyone but enough for it to seem like it was far more significant than it was. Then, it vanished.

But there were those who tried to keep the flame of acid rock going. In the UK it morphed into what would become known in the seventies as progressive rock but a similar outlet wasn't available to their American counterparts, the majority of whom were content with a sudden move towards rootsier styles. All that was left was for acid rock to go back to the garage from whence it came.

Tommy James and the Shondells had been no mere garage rock flash in the pan. They had already notched eleven Top 40 hits in Canada by the end of 1968 so it behooved them to freshen things up even if the stink of being a shouty suburban pop-rock band could be hard to wash off. They had clearly been absorbing the sounds coming from the likes of The Beatles and The Byrds but they did so utterly after the fact that it's almost as if they came from Macedonia instead of Michigan. Keeping up with the times? Yeah, we'll do that at our own pace, pal.

Thus, "Crimson and Clover", a psychedelic bit of chamber pop that few seemed interested in making more than a year on from the Summer of Love. While it's easy to belittle them for being behind the times, I admire them for trying to keep the flame going. Acid rock had been adopted and then abandoned so rapidly that there were still unexplored dark alleys to wander about.

While I appreciate the attempt, I can't say I'm crazy about the results. "Crimson and Clover" has always sounded to me like a fifties' ballad being updated to suit the flower power era. The tremolo effect really feels tacked on, as if Tommy James happened to be listening to Beatles' songs like "I Need You", "Yes It Is" and "Wait" and thought that an effects pedal would be just the thing to update what is an otherwise mid track. It works fairly well until someone had the bright idea to give the vocals as similar treatment. A bar or two of a very choppy "crimson and clover, over and over" is one thing but they let it run for far too long - over and over indeed.

On the other hand, it isn't a wasted effort. The group's garage rock aggressiveness and tightness comes together in a  pair of thirty second instrumental breaks that are genuinely impressive, with Mike Vale's bass playing being a particular highlight. This is why I would choose to listen to Tommy James and the Shondells (rather than to hear the lead singer's whiny tone). And, despite the effects pedal being done to death, it is really well produced. This is by no means enough to make me wish to return to it any time soon but I can certainly appreciate its merits.

"Crimson and Clover" is one of those songs that I wish I could like a lot more but its weaknesses reveal themselves more and more with every listen. Again, I like what they were trying to do — and I even like the fact that they were out of their depth while still trying to make a go of it. Mad respect to them. Too bad the end results aren't nearly as great as their ambition..

Score: 5

Bee Gees: "I Started a Joke"

January 20, 1969 (2 weeks)

I couldn't take a joke,

Which made us leave Clive's chat show

Watching the Bee Gees' fateful appearance on Clive Anderson's All Talk show, it is striking just how tame it appears to be. While Barry Gibb doesn't look especially happy, it seems to be going okay and his brothers Robin and Maurice both look quite pleased. While Anderson could have kept his mouth shut and allowed them to answer some of his questions, it doesn't feel like a situation that is about to go badly. The interviewer isn't very good and neither is one of his guests but when was that a particularly unusual situation?

At one point, Anderson asks them how they managed to get along so well over the years, as opposed to the Jacksons. Barry comments that it helps that they share the "same sense of humour". I'm guessing that means all three Gibb brothers have no sense of humour. And this is born out by their status as one of the most serious and least humourous acts in pop history. That is the irony of their hit "I Started a Joke": the Bee Gees are last people who would've made anyone laugh — even if plenty have laughed at them ever since.

I will say in their defense that this may well have been the whole point. They were this Anglo-Aussie pop act with cheery smiles but an earnest Barry was always prominent. They had begun to break through in many parts of the world but critics couldn't or wouldn't take them seriously, a predicament that they found hard to shake through much of their fifty years of activity. Somehow they had become an object of ridicule and hadn't the faintest idea how or why it happened.

This ought to be catnip for those of us who scoff at how the Bee Gees have been favourably reconsidered in recent years (and I say this as someone who nevertheless rates their 1969 album Odessa as damn-near perfect) but for one thing: "I Started a Joke" is rather good all things considered. To have the warbling and vulnerable Robin rather than the carefree Barry on lead was a wise decision. I buy his lamentations when I probably wouldn't had his brother been on the mic. The melody is dreamy and distracts from how trite the lyrics quickly become. It isn't anything spectacular — Bee Gees' singles seldom are — but sturdy enough and a noticeable improvement on previous Canadian chart topper "Words". Plus, I might as well take it from some of my musical idols (Pet Shop Boys, The Beautiful South, Paul Weller) who've seen fit to record passable versions of their own.

Barry Gibb's decision to abruptly leave the Clive Anderson interview probably prevented it from completely going off the rails. The last straw for Barry may have been the host's crack about future hit "Don't Forget to Remember" which he rather hackishly retorts with "I forgot that one". It's just too bad they never got the chance to discuss "I Started a Joke" but, then again, I don't suppose there would've been much laughter anyway.

Score: 6

Young-Holt Unlimited: "Soulful Strut"

January 13, 1969 (1 week)

It was in around 1939 that Duke Ellington reached the peak of his long and illustrious career. He had recently hooked up with a young Billy Strayhorn, who would go on to be his main collaborator for nearly thirty years. He also recruited the even younger Jimmie Blanton, an inventive and deeply influential bassist. The final piece of the puzzle was when tenor sax player Ben Webster joined Duke's extraordinary band whose lineup already boasted the likes of Harry Carney, Johnny Hodges and Cootie Williams. With standards already at an all time high, the great bandleader went to work on compositions such as "The C Jam Blues", "Concerto for Cootie" and "Never No Lament", numbers that would become fixtures of his peerless concert setlist for the remainder of his life.

Still, nothing ever stays the same. Blanton passed away in 1942, just shy of his twenty-fourth birthday while the volatile Webster left the following year. On a much less serious note, those three great instrumental works would eventually have lyrics added to them so they could go on to become beloved standards. "The C Jam Blues" became "Duke's Place", "Concerto for Cootie" was altered to "Do Nothin' Til You Hear from Me" and "Never No Lament" transformed into "Don't Get Around Much Anymore". What were once tight little dance numbers with concise solos and impeccable group interplay became vehicles for Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald and Willie Nelson to dazzle audiences on their own. While there would still be a place for instrumental pop and jazz, the writing was on the wall: the public will generally opt for a singer over a bunch guys taking turns on their respective instruments.

Somehow or other, though, the gentlemen behind Young-Holt Unlimited never got the memo. "Am I the Same Girl" had been recorded by singer Barbara Acklin, who had already scored a Top 20 hit in both Canada and the United States with "Love Makes a Woman", in 1968 but then it was decided to see what it was like without her on it. A new piano part was placed on it but otherwise it was the same song. Except it had now been renamed "Soulful Strut".

As readers of this blog may have noticed, I'm a bit of a sucker for instrumentals. Two of the first three number one hits that I gave a full score of ten out of ten happen to be vocal free (or, in the case of "Telstar", lyric free but that's close enough). I also rate fellow Canadian chart toppers "So Rare" (again, close enough especially since it is the chorus drags it down), "Sail Along Silvery Moon", "Walk - Don't Run" and "Wonderland by Night" highly. Sure, "Raunchy" and "Beatnik Fly" are nothing special but nor are they dreadful either. Yet, they all operate in a pop landscape in which lyrics aren't required. Like fellow RPM chart topper "No Matter What Shape (You Stomach's In)", "Soulful Strut" smacks of that instrumental cut that eighties and nineties bands would occasionally toss off on albums or B sides, the sort of thing that they clearly couldn't come up with words for. (Examples include The Smiths' "Oscillate Wildly" and The Housemartins' "The Mighty Ship")

While it leaves a satisfying first impression, "Soulful Strut" eventually settles into a pleasant, head nodding vibe that is fun to listen to but fails to make a serious mark. It has a nice groove with tinges of gospel and the piano solo in place of Barbara Acklin is effective. Still, it can't quite kick into another gear. While many of the great instrumentals by Booker T. and the MG's have moments that make them worth coming back to, Young-Holt Unlimited's one major hit sounds more or less just as it did the first time you heard it. There's nothing wrong with having it on but do you really need to hear more than once or twice?

Finally, as I just alluded to, Young-Holt became a one hit wonder (and one of the less renowned examples at that). Eldee Young and Isaac "Red" Holt had been jazz musicians, backing the acclaimed pianist Ramsey Lewis before trying out some of this pop business. The Wikipedia entry on "Soulful Strut", however, mentions that they may not have even played on their lone hit with studio musicians taking their place. Certainly sessioners from the record label Brunswick must have joined them on horns but I prefer to think that this is indeed them. With an increasing number of impostor acts in the late sixties, I shudder to think that even experienced jazz cats were being replaced so easily. They may not have been cornerstones of Duke Ellington's Orchestra or anything but the Young-Holt guys were more than capable of being the foundation of a good but underwhelming pop hit.

Score: 6

1968: Each Bird Keeps Singing His Own Song

 4 — The Union Gap: "Woman, Woman"

 3 — The Rose Garden: "Next Plane to London"

 8 — The Small Faces: "Itchycoo Park"

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

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

 4 — Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich: "Zabadak"

 6 — Classics IV: "Spooky"

 7 — Herman's Hermits: "I Can Take or Leave Your Loving"

 4 — Bee Gees: "Words"

 1 — 1910 Fruitgum Company: "Simon Says"

 2 — Georgie Fame: "The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde"

 6 — The Delfonics: "La-La (Means I Love You)"

 2 — The Monkees: "Valleri"

 2 — The Union Gap: "Young Girl"

 1 — Bobby Goldsboro: "Honey"

 8 — The Rascals: "It's a Beautiful Morning"

 6 — Simon and Garfunkel: "Mrs. Robinson"

 7 — Four Jacks and a Jill: "Master Jack"

 4 — Ohio Express: "Yummy Yummy Yummy"

 4 — Richard Harris: "MacArthur Park"

 3 — Herb Alpert: "This Guy's in Love with You"

 7 — Merrilee Rush: "Angel of the Morning"

 5 — Gary Puckett and the Union Gap: "Lady Willpower"

 7 — The Doors: "Hello, I Love You"

 5 — The Rascals: "People Got to Be Free"

 9 — Steppenwolf: "Born to Be Wild"

 2 — Jose Feliciano: "Light My Fire"

 3 — 1910 Fruitgum Company: "1, 2, 3, Red Light"

 5 — Jeannie C. Reily: "Harper Valley PTA"

10 — The Beatles: "Hey Jude"

 5 — The Crazy World of Arthur Brown: "Fire"

 3 — Mary Hopkin: "Those Were the Days"

 4 — Johnny Nash: "Hold Me Tight"

 8 — Steppenwolf: "Magic Carpet Ride"

 7 — Dion: "Abraham, Martin and John"

 5 — Diana Ross and The Supremes: "Love Child"

 7 — Glen Campbell: "Wichita Lineman"

Average Score: 5.19

Yes, the Canadian number ones have hit an all-time low. While "Simon Says" and "Honey" are the obvious low hanging fruit culprits of such a poor average score, they are far from the only offerings here that drag it down. As a matter of fact if you take out all four extremes — 1910 Fruitgum Company and Bobby Goldboro at one end, Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart and The Beatles at the other — the mean actually goes down slightly. Poor-to-average has become the norm; the outliers are the increasingly scarce outstanding tracks.

The simplest explanation for this is that the two major formats at the time had branched off with little opportunity for reconciliation: album acts were thriving while singles groups continued to shit out substandard fare. Groundbreaking albums such as The Beatles (aka The White Album), Beggars Banquet, Electric Ladyland, The Notorious Byrd Brothers, The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society, Bookends, White Light/White Heat and Eli and the Thirteenth Confession had virtually nothing to do with what was on the Top 40. While critically acclaimed, many of these LPs failed to sell in huge numbers which indicates that releasing 45s on the old school hit parade was still the place to reap the big commercial rewards — but there was no longer much desire to make grand creative statements on the lowly 7" single.

This trend would carry over into 1969 and, indeed, well into the seventies. As for '69 in terms of the RPM chart toppers, there should be an uptick in quality as bubblegum pop begins to fade away (though not before its crowning achievement takes its rightful place at number one). Things, however, begin to get more serious with the arrival of a jazz rock monolith whose time at the top was brief but which certainly left a mark. Not unlike '68, 1969 is yet another year renowned for some remarkable albums but the singles scene is a whole other thing indeed.

Oh, and at long last, the Canadian power play is coming!

Glen Campbell: "Wichita Lineman"

December 16, 1968 (4 weeks)

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

A lyrical passage can sometimes make all the difference. Jimmy Webb wrote two major hits in 1968, both of which have lines that are known to this day. Richard Harris' "MacArthur Park" is now chiefly remembered for "I'll never have that recipe again", a line so bad that it completely overshadows what is otherwise a good — though not great — composition (even if Harris himself botched it with his faulty singing; as I have already discussed, recording a decent rendition of "MacArthur Park" was beyond all but a relatively obscure Scots prog rock act though we'll eventually get to yet another version of it in time).

"MacArthur Park" was then followed at the very end of '68 with "Wichita Lineman" by former session musician/short-lived touring Beach Boy Glen Campbell. It, too, has a memorable set of lyrics which are quoted above. Webb wasn't too thrilled with it and later admitted that he would have changed the words to a proper rhyme had he been allowed more time to finish what he'd begun. (While 'time' and 'line' do not rhyme, they are close enough and rare reminiscent of the classic 1979 Squeeze hit "Up the Junction" which pairs "Clapham" with "happen" and "tenner" with "better"; while this ins't something I've put a ton of thought into, I think that having these awkward off rhymes gives a song a more natural realism, as if vocalists like Campbell or Squeeze's Glenn Tilbrook were just firing off lines off the top of their heads) Campbell got a hold of Webb's demo and got straight to work on it leaving its composer with little choice but to leave it be.

When "Wichita Lineman" became a huge hit around the world this line began to take on a life of its own. People adore it and with good reason. Granted, it's a great example of why song lyrics aren't poetry: reading it doesn't make much of an impression — especially if you look at it in the context of what the lineman is up to (is this creepy guy eavesdropping on her?). No, Webb may have provided the song but Campbell does the heavy lifting with a resigned, quietly determined delivery that is impossible not to feel moved by. He isn't the flashiest of singers but when you're interpreting a song about a lovelorn blue collar worker in small town Oklahoma then the last thing you need to be is a Sinatra or an Elvis.

So, the lyric is really good and Campbell makes it even better but what about the rest of the song? It's very nice. Yeah, that's about all I can say on the matter. I like it. Now, I'm not convinced it's a masterpiece but I can certainly see the appeal. Hell, it appeals to me at least up to a point. Bob Dylan has described it as the greatest song of all time but I'm not quite there. (I think "Wichita Lineman" has gotten a lot mileage out of Dylan's high praise but I'd be willing to bet he's said the same thing about at least two dozen other songs during his eighty-five years on this planet) YouTuber David Hartley has made a very convincing case for its musical merits and no doubt many musicians think very highly of it. I, as a listener of extremely modest musical ability, just find it a very enjoyable listen but is it actually mind blowing?

It's almost as if people decided to overcorrect their criticisms of "MacArthur Park" by overdoing it on "Wichita Lineman". And to an extent, they would have been right to do so. One is highly ambitious but also flawed while the other is deceptively simple and touching. The better Jimmy Webb song comes out ahead but let's not go nuts here.

Score: 7

Diana Ross and The Supremes: "Love Child"

December 2, 1968 (2 weeks)

It's actually a wonder that The Supremes managed to last as long as they did. They took their sweet old time trying to have a hit single only to then start reeling them off one after another, with a success rate second only to The Beatles during the mid-sixties. Yet, by 1968, they appeared to be headed down the dumper. Chart places suffered. Tension within the trio mounted. Amid a dispute over royalties, longtime in-house songwriting team Holland-Dozier-Holland left Motown. Label boss Berry Gordy had been not so subtly grooming Diana Ross for a solo career. The quality of their singles had become inconsistent.

Eventually the decision was made to keep the golden goose going for a while longer. Longtime member Florence Ballard was out, replaced by Cindy Birdsong. A re-brand to 'The Supremes with Diana Ross' was then scrapped in favour of 'Diana Ross and the Supremes'. They had a new group of songwriters/producers working with them known as The Clan. (Seriously, The Clan? Jesus, Motown, read the freaking room!) This would be just what they'd need to carry them forward just as Stevie Wonder had begun maturing as an artist, as Marvin Gaye's work began to get more gritty and as the Four Tops reached their zenith.

While I can certainly understand the appeal, there's something unlikable about "Love Child". It's too busy, too over-stuffed with ambitious ideas that the song and The Supremes themselves seem to get overwhelmed. Tom Breihan perceptively points out in his glowing review that it anticipates disco by a decade but it's a brand of seventies' dance music that hasn't worked itself out yet. "Don't fuck with the formula" is what Beach Boy Mike Love is supposed to have said - and he almost certainly did say so, if not in so many words — and it's a point that is worth considering, especially when there's really no direction to the music that is being made. While The Beach Boys went from strength to strength creatively (even while their commercial prospects dwindled), Motown's stable had more mixed results when it came to moving forward. With the trio of Ross, Mary Wilson and Ballard (and, now, Birdsong) left out of the decision making process for the most part, committees seemed to be calling the shots. Finding a balance between their established perfect soul-pop and some kind of future direction proved to be impossible. While a brave attempt, "Love Child" is at best a semi-failure that did manage to really give Ross an increasing amount of the spotlight.

And yet the score I have given it below is right in the middle of the 'not bad' range even though I have almost nothing good to say about it. I can barely get through its three minutes. What can I say, it gets bonus points for its ambition and for it cleverly predicting the future. Mind you, this isn't even strictly down to the record itself. The real future it foretells is that of a pop scene without The Supremes — or, better yet, one in which The Supremes were able to return to being a fine pop group without the pressures of their mid-sixties' imperial period hanging round their collective necks. It also predicts Diana Ross' solo career, which, much like her old group, was a mixed bag itself. Much as singer and group may have once needed each other, they were probably better off apart from this point forward. Thus concludes The Supremes' relevancy in this space — and I can't say I'll be sorry to see them go.

Score: 5

Dion: "Abraham, Martin and John"

November 25, 1968 (1 week)

Dion Dimucci was one of a handful of performers on the Winter Dance Party tour who didn't board the Beechcraft Bonanza four-seater aircraft on the night of February 3, 1959. Future country music star Waylon Jennings was another who didn't get a seat on this particular jet. Those who did embark were Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson. All three lost their lives that night when their plane went down.

Like many up and coming rock and roll singers, Dion looked up to Buddy Holly. He later admitted that the untimely death of his idol left him confined to his bedroom back in New York for two weeks. Gradually recovering from grief and shock, he resolved to follow Holly's example and make the music that he wanted to make, spurning the commercial pressures that had been on him since emerging as a teenage pop star in 1956. He began exploring blues music, a genre that would become his life's passion. He would leave pop and doo-wop behind.

With all due respect, Dion would have been better off had he been more musically curious. (To be fair, he probably had been that way inclined until the blues came into his life) While it was certain there was far more to him than "A Teenager in Love", he was also capable of more than "three chords and the truth". He had been a great pop star and had developed into a talented singer-songwriter. A folk song like "Abraham, Martin and John" didn't have to be an anomaly. Better yet, it could have been but one of many lifelong anomalies in a musical life that would have benefited from being as all over the place as anyone could imagine.

I admit it's a little out of place to be using a simplistic folk song as an example of creatively stretching out but it's what we have to go on. And even by folk's modest standards, this is basic stuff. The three title characters — Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr and John F. Kennedy — each have a verse devoted to them but they're exactly the same beyond their names being different. They all freed a lot of people (did JFK really free that many individuals of colour, especially compared to Lincoln and MLK?) but the good they die young. Normally I deplore repetitiveness but I'll make an exception in this instance. If anything, it probably works better this way, rather than needlessly elaborating on how they stood apart from one another. The fourth verse is dedicated to the recently assassinated Robert F. Kennedy who, let's be honest, never even had the chance to free anyone at all. Instead, he's spotted on a hill alongside his slain brother, Lincoln and MLK. Touching but superfluous.

Good as "Abraham, Martin and John" is, I'd argue that Dion was capable of writing a better tribute to these fallen leaders, even if only musically. My esteem for the man is complex: I admire his steadfast refusal to do what others expect of him but I sort of feel his output isn't as interesting at least partially as a result. The challenge brought forth by The Beatles invited some to rise to the occasion while others retreated; Dion, by contrast, wasn't interested. While it's commendable that he used Buddy Holly's example to go his own way, he would've done well to have been similarly exploitative rather that confining himself to one particular thing. As his two Canadian number ones suggest, there should have been so much more to him.

Score: 7