Gordon Lightfoot: "If You Could Read My Mind"

February 20, 1971 (1 week)

It didn't exactly wow critics and fans to begin with but John Lennon's Plastic Ono Band album played the long game: over time, its influence has been felt. The rise of breakup/divorce albums over the course of the seventies and beyond — Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks, Fleetwood Mac's Rumours, Bruce Springsteen's Tunnel of Love just to name the most obvious examples — owes more than a little to Lennon's raw nerve lyrics. Then, there's the role it played on barebones, lo-fi releases from Nick Drake's Pink Moon to the largely unlistenable yet still compelling demos of the sick and tortured Daniel Johnston.

Lennon's solo debut isn't often lumped in with the burgeoning singer-songwriter movement of the early seventies. Though not dissimilar, they floated independently of one another. Lennon's openness contrasted with a group of individuals who struggled to express their feelings so directly. Relationships collapsed around them but they were unable or unwilling to dive deep into what caused their breakups. This must read like a criticism but it shouldn't be taken as one. Couples drift apart all the time but the how and/or the why can sometimes be virtually impossible to answer. Lennon was all for getting the truth out there — even if he could still be prone to mythologizing the life he and Yoko Ono had together — but this could be easier said than done when it came to even some of the more accomplished coffeehouse folk singers of the era.

A look at the above photo from the Italian release of "If You Can Read My Mind" (which is nearly identical to the cover of the album Sit Down Young Stranger from the previous year) shows Gordon Lightfoot looking out the window, his appearance tight lipped, concerned but not giving away too much. He looks caught between being a rugged man's man who keeps his issues to himself (and, perhaps, a trusty bottle of vodka) and a more modern day guy who's open with his feelings. In order to keep with the times he is keen to share his inner thoughts but his instinct is to be guarded. Having a song called "If You Could Read My Mind" is practically daring his audience to give it a try.

I first heard "If You Could Read My Mind" while in my late teens. Being used to Neil Tennant's sophisticated wit, Morrissey's outsider meditations, Michael Stipe's irresistible nonsense and Billy Bragg's charmed agitprop, I thought it was absolute dreck. Sure, Lightfoot could sing pretty well and I could even see why people found it so moving but I couldn't get past the old time movies and paperback novels from the drugstore and all that crap. While I would gradually grow to appreciate the song on the whole, these references were remained cringey. Who sings this stuff? And who would write it? Who would even think such shit? Turns out, I do.

I think there are a couple ways of looking at the lyrical quirks in Lightfoot's first RPM number one. First, he's stalling. Rather than being unaware of what divides him and his ex, he actually knows whats up but can't face dealing with it so he invents these roadblocks of ghosts and fallen heroes. He even recognizes what he's up to when he chimes in with the line "but for now love, let's be real". Excuse me, but aren't you the one coming up with all this fanciful stuff in order to avoid having to face up to your responsibilities and you're telling someone else to "be real"?

The other thing going on is a kind of subconscious bullshit. I have looked back on the ruins of failed relationships and thrown out theories as to what went wrong without careful consideration of facts or logic. (If you're going to be a conspiracy theorist make all the crap you conjure up about yourself rather than the outside world) Lightfoot is referencing crummy B movies and crappy romance novels the same way I might quote from Seinfeld or The Simpsons — and he's gone and applied them to his own situation. I don't what these similes are supposed to mean and I'm not sure anyone is — I'm not even convinced that Lightfoot himself could have told you (not that he would have).

Again, this surely reads as if I'm bashing the song and Lightfoot in general but nothing could be further from the truth. I like the fact that he keeps avoiding the topic because that's what I do. We already had Lennon and Dylan and Leonard Cohen to provide mental images that we'd never imagined before, what Lightfoot did better than anyone else was putting into words thoughts that everyone has had before but never sang or wrote about. Some of us can't deal with confrontation and want nothing more than to hide away from it. Other forms of media will lecture me that I should "stand up for myself" but I shouldn't have to. We the meek and mild need a voice of our own. Some will no doubt opt for Jesus but old Gord is saviour enough for me.

"I never thought I could act this way..."

Lightfoot has detoured enough and at last he can get to the point - but only up to a point. He still doesn't know what happened and won't let on what he did wrong. (A second pass at this sort of chorus has him admitting that he "never thought he could feel this way" but I prefer how it comes out the first time; at least there's an attempt at accounting for his actions even if, as ever, he declines to go into detail) A bluntness hangs in the air with the resigned "...but the feeling's gone and I just can't get it back": we've all been there.

Gordon Lightfoot will be back in this blog before long. His remaining RPM chart toppers are both great in their own right with many fans and members of the wider Baby Boom generation preferring one or both of them to this single. (His trio of Canadian number ones is made up of the three songs he remains arguably best remembered for which is a surprisingly rare feat) While I can understand the differing views, I can't possibly agree. "If You Could Read My Mind" not only survives what is on the surface some shaky lyrics but it has also withstood a seemingly endless parade of well-meaning cover versions — and none of them are even all that bad. Yet, topping Lightfoot's skill move of saying so much, expressing so little and still creating an emotional steam engine was always going to be a tough act for him — or anyone else — to follow.

Score: 10

Lynn Anderson: "Rose Garden"

February 13, 1971 (1 week)

During the year I spent in Britain in the late eighties, my family and I seemed to take our homesickness out on the culture at large. We'd get irritated by constant references to America and, by extension, no one knowing anything about Canada. We naively assumed that our far deeper connection to the old Empire would have endeared us to the locals but it meant nothing to them. Thus, we'd cling to even the most modest of acknowledgments. (Except, of course, when it came to the Ben Johnson steroid scandal at the Seoul Olympics) The slightest mention of our homeland on TV would get us excited. If we happened to drive by a large hotel we'd be sure to check to see if a Canadian flag was flying alongside the American, Australian, French and German standards — and we'd all be indignant when it wasn't in its rightful place (which it never was).

It was a pleasant surprise, then, when "I Beg Your Pardon" by Toronto's Kon Kan started climbing the UK Top 40.in the spring of 1989. It mattered little that they sounded like the most British synth-pop group imaginable (Graeme Kay in Smash Hits was unimpressed by their unoriginal sound, describing them as a "cross between New Order and Depeche Mode"): they were from Canada and so were we and that was all that mattered! While my hope that "I Beg Your Pardon" might go all the way to the top was wishful thinking, its eventual peak at number five was an achievement nonetheless.

The clearly sampled bit — you know, as opposed to a good deal of the rest of the song whose many sampled bits weren't quite as easy to spot — was from "Rose Garden", a song that I had long assumed to be by fellow Canadian k.d. lang. (Actually, I wasn't entirely wrong on that one because the performance artist turned torch singer did record it a couple years prior to Kon Kan's use of it) I had no idea who Lynn Anderson was and it wasn't as if the success of "I Beg Your Pardon" brought her back into the public eye. In fact, "project" leader Barry Harris didn't go out of his way to acknowledge her, claiming at the time to have written it "in a Lisbon subway". It was only later that he admitted that he wanted to do with "Rose Garden" what the Pet Shop Boys had done with the Elvis Presley/Willie Nelson standard "Always on My Mind": take a popular country anthem and transform it into a slice of glorious pop. (He failed to do so but writing a whole new pop song around another is not just something any old fart can do so we'll let it slide)

Lynn Anderson had been a country star since the mid-sixties with a handful of hits on the American and Canadian country charts to her credit, including the number one smash "Big Girls Don't Cry", which had nothing to do with The Four Seasons song of the same name. She also began to make a name for herself on The Lawrence Welk Show, which, much to my surprise, wasn't the name of a mind-numbingly boring political panel show on American public broadcasting. (I'm sorry but the name Lawrence Welk says 'candid, off-the-cuff, hard hitting analysis', not 'all-around family entertainer') Like Welk, Anderson hailed from North Dakota but this meant she was an outsider when it came to being accepted by Nashville's country establishment. Rather than looking to the emerging Bakersfield sound like Buck Owens and Merle Haggard (a scene that frankly could've used a female lead singer) or leaning towards mainstream pop, she doubled down on her pursuit of being accepted by Music City. (Considering the lengthy career she subsequently enjoyed and the fact that she died in Nashville, it would seem she succeeded) And in doing so she had her one and only pop hit.

"Rose Garden" was written in 1967 by Joe South who also took a stab at recording it. There's nothing really wrong with his original but it does sound like he had Elvis Presley in mind while singing it. For whatever reason the King never tried it out himself but star Billy Joe Royal did put out a version of his own. Again, his take on it is all right though a little too jokey and cornball for my taste. Playing up the comedy aspect of "Rose Garden" is a legitimate choice and it is one that Anderson makes herself albeit with more subtlety. Her reading is not unlike a serious dramatic actor playing a comedy role as straight as possible who then still gets the required laughs. It helps as well that it's delivered from a female perspective: Anderson lends a touch of wisdom that simply isn't there in either the South or Royal versions.

Which brings us back round to "I Beg Your Pardon": it's almost a duet. Yeah, I know that Anderson's sample ("Smile for a while and let's be jolly...") is only brief but her part provides an effective counterpoint to singer Kevin Wynne's angst, a suggestion to "Cheer Up!" that doesn't come across as patronizing. The country singer would reflect on the huge success of "Rose Garden" and comment that it fitted the times when the United States was divided and coming out of the Vietnam years and needed some light relief. There's probably something to this and it works just as well in a spot of synth doom and gloom. So, props to Lynn Anderson: she took an ordinary country-pop song and made everyone take notice and then her vocal was used on a modern synth-pop hit and did the same the thing. Ignore all her country hits and she could even qualify to be a double one-hit wonder.

Score: 7 (which is precisely the same score I'd be giving to "I Beg Your Pardon" only it peaked at a measly number nineteen in Canada; there aren't many Canadians who can claim to be more popular in Britain than they are back home. It's basically them and former Prime Minister R.B. Bennett, the man who did as little as possible for his people during the Great Depression)

Bee Gees: "Lonely Days"

February 6, 1971 (1 week)

It was on Boxing Day, 1967 that the British public received a shock to the system: they discovered that The Beatles weren't infallible. Their hour-long feature film Magical Mystery Tour baffled millions of viewers with its surrealism and lack of plot. The group's plan was to board a bus with a collection of actors, friends, musicians and circus performers and film whatever happened along the way. "Unfortunately", as Malcolm McDowell in the classic eighties' documentary The Compleat Beatles put it, "nothing did".

Magical Mystery Tour was considered to be The Beatles' folly. The BBC, who showed it, faced minimal, if any, backlash. It was perhaps with this in mind that they agreed to broadcast yet another oddball film also starring a pop group, the Bee Gees' Cucumber Castle on the day after Christmas, 1970. Though a clear (if very flimsy) storyline is present, it may well be worse than Magical Mystery Tour. The Beatles had some decent music to keep them afloat while the brothers Gibb were floundering creatively. Whatsmore, their numbers were reduced with Robin having left the group following the fallout caused by Odessa, their one true album masterpiece. Whether a trio or a duo, the Bee Gees weren't John Lennon or Ringo Starr when it came to screen presence. They weren't even Paul McCartney. At best they were a band of George Harrisons which was problematic since one was more than enough. (Charismatic actress Eleanor Bron was part of a talented but underutilized Cucumber Castle cast; she had previously been in The Beatles' pointless and silly 1965 film Help!, another deeply flawed picture that is nevertheless superior to the Bee Gees' debut motion picture)

The funny thing is, Cucumber Castle didn't harm their reputation all that much. Their popularity had already begun to wane in the UK (despite recent number two hits for both the Barry-Maurice incarnation — "Don't Forget to Remember" — and for Robin's solo career — "Saved by the Bell") while their stock in North America as reliable soft rock hitmakers remained largely unchanged. While the BBC's flagship channel put Magical Mystery Tour on the air, it was left to poor cousin BBC2 to deal with the Bee Gees' cinematic endeavour. Being a ratings bonanza, The Beatles ended up embarrassing themselves in front of more or less an entire nation; on the other hand, since few bothered tuning into Cucumber Castle, Barry and Maurice faced little in the way of blowback. (It's likely that their second foray into the cinematic world overshadowed their first since it's even more unbearably awful)

Cucumber Castle's plot of a king on his deathbed splitting his realm in two so his two sons could each rule which only caused a rift seemed to mirror that of the Bee Gees. While Robin's departure was long enough for everyone to notice, Barry and Maurice would also split from each other. It was only because of manager Robert Stigwood that the battlin' brothers would find a way back to each other with even Robin rejoining. If there were longterm solo careers to be mined from their ranks, they weren't yet ready — and, as it would turn out, they never really would be. By the time Cucumber Castle premiered on British TV, the Gibbs had managed to find their way back to one another.

The Bee Gees seemingly hadn't been away for any length of time and they were already embarking on a comeback. It would be the first of many. In the short term, it was as if they had never come apart and had never been away. "Lonely Days" was, surprisingly, their first Top 5 hit on the Billboard Hot 100 and their third number one smash on the RPM hit parade. (It did less well in Britain, being their lowest charting single since "To Love Somebody" failed to reach the Top 40 back in 1967) In retrospect, however, it may have been wise to have kept a low profile, delaying their ultimate return a few more months.

Rather than being re-energized, "Lonely Days" only confirms that this was an outfit that had run out of ideas — or, better yet, had ideas aplenty but had no idea what to do with them. Their ambition remained but the at times stirring pop of old had vanished. Cut to a trim two minutes or so it would have been a passable attempt at reviving what they once had but at nearly double that length it just becomes an irritant. A reminder that their strained relations made the Bee Gees' story was often far more interesting than much of the music they recorded. It would be a while before they'd even get back to their old mediocre ways.

Score: 3

Dawn: "Knock Three Times"

January 23, 1971 (2 weeks)

They would later become 'Dawn featuring Tony Orlando' (even though his nibs was the focal point of the group rather than being the implied guest star) and then 'Tony Orlando and Dawn' but, first, they were simply known as 'Dawn'. With so much emphasis on the singer, it's a wonder they didn't just end it and become 'Tony Orlando and to Hell with Those Losers in Dawn'. But it wouldn't be until their ultimate break-up in the late seventies that it became the solo project that it had long been in all but name.

Wikipedia describes the band name was used for "obscuring the actual performers". The rock quartet on the cover of "Knock Three Times" is meant to be a fictional group, although I think that only applies to the trio of clean-shaven gentlemen on the left; on the right, is what I am pretty sure is Tony Orlando trying to do as convincing a job as he can looking the part of a true blue rock 'n' roller. Maybe it's the stache, maybe it's the perm, maybe it's the well-nourished body type (or maybe it's a combination of all three) but he can't pull it off. The gaunt dude on the far left, however, is a sex machine, party animal who embodies everything about the rock lifestyle — except, perhaps, the music.

One listen to "Knock Three Times" and it is clear that this photo is a ruse. The seventies will produce many former rockers who chose to go soft or who went disco but Orlando was above all that. He had long been a jobbing middle-of-the-road pop guy and now the culture had finally caught up with him. Not so much an opportunist as an individual who had commendable patience. There, I did it. I showed some respect for Tony bloody Orlando.

But wait! There's more! I also think his second major hit (the first, "Candida", was kept off the top of the RPM charts by Neil Diamond's the equally MOR "Cracklin' Rosie") is not too bad. "Knock Three Times" is hardly genius pop but it's inoffensive enough and in that catchy sweet spot. Tom Ewing reckons Orlando overdoes his vocal but I don't hear it myself. The Popular blogger is also bothered by having only just worked out that the girl he's fancies is in the apartment just below him rather than above. My only issue here, however, is that if someone's knocking three times it probably means they want me to turn the noise down; I wouldn't take it as a signal for a booty call. Still, why should I question the romantic overtures of a Lothario in those pre-text message iron age days? Just as I shouldn't be too harsh on a reasonable single in a year with some far more questionable selections. To wit...

Score: 5

1970: Sparkle Someone Else's Eyes

 4 — B.J. Thomas: "Raindrops Keeps Fallin' on My Head"

 5 — The Archies: "Jingle Jangle"

 6 — Shocking Blue: "Venus"

 1 — Tom Jones: "Without You (There Is Nothing)"

 3 — Eddie Holman: "Hey There Lonely Girl"

 9 — The Guess Who: "No Time"

 9 — Simon and Garfunkel: "Bridge Over Troubled Water"

 6 — The Beatles: "Let It Be"

 8 — Norman Greenbaum: "Spirit in the Sky"

 9 — The Guess Who: "American Woman" 

 5 — Creedence Clearwater Revival: "Up Around the Bend"

 3 — Ray Stevens: "Everything Is Beautiful"

 7 — The Beatles: "The Long and Winding Road"

 4 — Rare Earth: "Get Ready"

 5 — Melanie with the Edwin Hawkins Singers: "Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)"

 1 — Miguel Ríos: "A Song of Joy"

 4 — The Carpenters: "(They Long to Be) Close to You"

 8 — Mashmakhan: "As the Years Go By"

 7 — Mungo Jerry: "In the Summertime"

 7 — Edwin Starr: "War"

 6 — Creedence Clearwater Revival: "Lookin' Out My Backdoor"

 3 — Neil Diamond: "Cracklin' Rosie"

 7 — Sugarloaf: "Green-Eyed Lady"

 4 — The Carpenters: "We've Only Just Begun"

 2 — The Partridge Family: "I Think I Love You'"

 9 — George Harrison: "Isn't It a Pity"

Average Score: 5.42

1970 is the first year since 1963 not to have a single Canadian number one get full marks from me. As you can see, a handful came close but they weren't quite good enough. I had actually been expecting several more underperforming singles here but I think it came down to mediocrity triumphing over absolute badness.

This is of course the year in which The Beatles came to an end. While "Let It Be" and "The Long and Winding Road" are hardly poor efforts, neither of them approach what the Fab Four were capable of at their very best. Perhaps this suggests that had they continued either as a full-time or part-time recording concern in the seventies that their output would never have returned to form. I sort of suspect that's exactly what would have happened even if I will happily acknowledge that a lot of the music they recorded after the Get Back/Let It Be sessions was a return to form. Still, it's difficult to imagine them accomplishing more had they carried on.

The post-Beatle landscape was ably filled in by their longtime rivals The Rolling Stones who, rather fittingly, see a return to the top spot after a pretty lengthy stretch of coming up short. The former Fabs all do well for themselves too but I have to wonder if the public was judging John, Paul, George and Ringo on a curve. With the likes of Dawn (soon to be 'featuring Tony Orlando), a creatively bankrupt Bee Gees, more dismal crap from The Partridge Family and Tom Jones and the rise of The Osmonds, Canadians clearly had a lot of time for pop's shitty underbelly but they seemed to expect better of The Beatles even in their waning solo years — but this is more the concern of what lies beyond 1971.

Much has been said and written about '71 as being the peak of rock music. For the most part, this has been examined from the perspective of the many huge selling, critically acclaimed and/or deeply influential LPs that came out during that particular twelve month stretch. For the purposes of this blog, attention will be devoted to the singles. As ever, they're a mixed bag. The bad ones are coming but so, too, are some genuinely great RPM number ones. If not quite the Year Rock Exploded then certainly it is the Year Rock Did Quite Well for Itself, Thank You Very Much.

George Harrison: "Isn't It a Pity"

December 19, 1970 (5 weeks)

From 1963 to 1970, twenty-four songs written or co-written by George Harrison ended up on a variety of Beatles' albums, singles and one EP. As if out to prove a point, he had nearly as many originals on his first proper solo album. All Things Must Pass is said to be pop's first triple album which underscores just how quietly productive the Fab Four's third best songwriter had always been. Let's ignore the fact that the jams on disc three aren't worth bothering with or that the smattering of rockers ("Wah-Wah", "Awaiting on You All") unwittingly expose Harrison's weak voice and just appreciate such an impressive burst of creativity. No one — not least his erstwhile colleagues — would've thought he had it in him.

At least half of what appears on All Things Must Pass was written while Harrison was a Beatle. Most of them - "What Is Life", "Let It Down", the title track — have their origins during the tumultuous late '68/early '69 period in which the Fab Four were moving away from each other creatively and even their close bond had begun to fray. While John Lennon and, to a lesser extent, Paul McCartney began drying up on the songwriting front, their oft ignored junior partner was prolifically churning out the compositions. Still, "Isn't It a Pity" (along with fellow All Things Must Pass track "Art of Dying") dates all the way back to 1966 when it was offered up for the classic Revolver.

It is hard to imagine what is either The Beatles' best or second best album having a different track listing (although I can imagine it since I grew up listening to my mother's copy of the North American edition that had just eleven cuts; with just two tracks, this was my first inkling that Lennon was a lazy git) not to mention it having four Harrison compositions. Having three writing credits on Revolver was something of a achievement as it was but you've got to think that he was pushing his luck even getting that many. (Follow-up Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which is The Beatles' other best or second best album, includes just one Harrison track, the remarkable "Within You Without You"; another, the forgettable "Only a Northern Song", was deservedly left off) In addition, at just over seven minutes, "Isn't It a Pity" would have been way too long next to the economical length of Revolver's fourteen tracks.

That's not to say that there wasn't a place for it on any Beatles' albums. Like many of his subsequent tracks rejected in favour of the Lennon/McCartney monolith, Harrison would put "Isn't It a Pity" in his back pocket, awaiting the inevitable solo project. Had he offered it up for Abbey Road, there's a good argument that it would've been more suitable than "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" or the "Sun KIng"/"Mean Mr Mustard"/"Polythene Pam"/"She Came in Through the Bathroom Window" part of the side 2 medley. (Honestly, "Golden Slumbers"/"Carry That Weight"/"The End" is the only bit that anyone gives a shit about, right?) As I have already noted, while many praise Harrison's contributions to the group's last hurrah, I only wish they'd included more by him.

Though stretching to over seven minutes, "Isn't It a Pity" doesn't outstay its welcome. Its slow build doesn't really go anywhere but there's just enough going on to keep listener interest. In fact, a compromised, edited down version probably wouldn't be as impactful. (That said, the pointless four minute reprise on disc two of All Things Must Pass does it no favours) Phil Spector's uncharacteristically restrained string section blends beautifully with Harrison's now patented slide guitar. If it isn't quite as potent as album stand outs "All Things Must Pass" and "Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let It Roll)", it is only a notch below (the former being by far the best song The Band never wrote and the latter with a melodic magic that ought to have impressed deeply both Lennon and McCartney)

Interestingly, "Isn't It a Pity" wasn't the flagship side of Harrison's single to promote All Things Must Pass in most territories. As a matter of fact, it wasn't even a B side outside of North America. "My Sweet Lord" (b/w "What Is Life" in the rest of the world) would just about run the table as far as topping global singles charts were concerned but Canada's RPM hit parade proved to be an exception. While its flip side had the greater commercial potential, I prefer the the present single which comes across as a brave move from an individual who was attempting to make a name for himself beyond his renowned band. 

And about that group Harrison had been in: there's a notion that floats around that even as early as the beginning of the seventies, the music scene was managing just fine without the Fabs. For sure, even if Lennon and McCartney themselves were having trouble moving on, the pop charts were churning along just fine without Beatles' singles keeping them afloat. Yet, the public's hunger for them remained. If you include the three weeks that "Isn't It a Pity" carried over at number one into the new year, all four Beatles would hit the RPM top spot at some point in 1971. Evidently, they were as big as ever even if they'd never be the same again. A pity indeed.

Score: 9

The Partridge Family: "I Think I Love You"

November 21, 1970 (4 weeks)

Devolution. The American entertainment industry started off with The Monkees, a quartet of cheeky actors and musicians who had a sitcom as a vehicle for their pop careers. Then, they staged a coup and won and the cash cow imploded. Next, there was The Archies, comic book characters adapted to the small screen who had suddenly become a band. They had their hits but the public could never fully embrace them as a cartoon and it all went tits up. Finally, there was The Partridge Family: another sitcom, this time based on a family band trying to make it. In spite of the premise, the music was a total afterthought.

Matriarch Shirley Jones, the painfully stereotypical All-American post-War housewife. David Cassidy, all charming cockiness and the air of someone who's convinced he's cooler than anyone watching him on TV. (He may have had a point) Susan Dey, doe-eyed girl-next-door who made looking bored out of her mind sexy. (Supermodels really ought to acknowledge the influence she had on their profession) Danny Bonaduce, smart alec kid and dirty bag waiting to happen. The other two little twerps whose names escape me, as poor at acting as they were at pretending to be musically proficient. Ladies and gentlemen, The Partridge Family. I'd say you can't make this shit up but that's exactly what a TV network exec did.

Of course, the idea wasn't just conjured out of thin air. It was the unlikely pop stardom of The Cowsills in the late sixties that inspired the concept. At first, it was proposed that Billy, Bobby and the rest would star in the show themselves but their acting wasn't considered good enough. (I also have to wonder if they were hamstrung by their waning popularity coupled with the older boys growing up and leaving their wholesome image behind) Too lazy to consider rising family acts in, say, Gary, Indiana or Ogden, Utah, it was decided just to cast a bunch of actors instead. Jones and Cassidy could sing and that was all that was needed. Studio vocalists would handle the rest and the music itself would be played by The Wrecking Crew because it was evidently against the law to utilize anyone else. Oh, the promise of an exciting and fresh venture.

Critics and pop fans would eventually re-evaluate The Monkees and even The Archies. They may have been misguided in doing so — especially when it came to the latter — but they had their reasons. A similar reconsideration has never been granted The Partridge Family (at least not on a wide scale) and with good reason. Manufactured pop acts always had artifice dialed up to the max but at least there was some effort to be contemporary. The best of the hits of The Monkees are poor cousins to the extraordinary work of The Beatles; The Archies had a young pop craftsman in Andy Kim to give the project some currency. They may not have always succeeded but you can at least respect the attempt.

Sadly, nothing even close is going on with the first Partridge Family hit "I Think I Love You". It is pure old fashioned establishment pop cheese. Tony Romeo had been a pretty successful songwriter since the early sixties but it sounds like he had spent the past several years in isolation since there's nothing of The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Motown or psychedelic rock in his most famous work. To do a throwback to simpler times is one thing but to do so with something so forgettable and lifeless makes it even worse. Cassidy's Keith Partridge is doing his best to add some life to his lead vocal but it's too little too late. The people behind The Partridge Family may have had ambitions for the show but it's clear that the desire to craft great pop along the way was never a priority.

A seldom — if ever — discussed 'what if' surrounds The Partridge Family following its first season in which the sextet travel around in their bus on tour. The show's subsequent seasons are centred around the family home in LA with less of an emphasis on the band itself. But imagine a scenario in which they gradually have Keith Partridge branch out to become a folky singer-songwriter not unlike James Taylor and Cat Stevens. It would have made for some interesting storylines in which the young heartthrob becomes more mature. (They could have also had stories at the same time revolving around the musical ambitions of Laurie — either as a singer or a keyboardist — and even Danny jamming with his friends from school) The family band concept would have evolved as the three oldest children became more independent. What, then, does this have to do with "I Think I Love You"? Not a whole lot but it says an awful lot that a blogger more than fifty-five years after the fact has better ideas for a show he never thought much of and their music which is somehow even worse.

Score: 2

The Carpenters: "We've Only Just Begun"

November 14, 1970 (1 week)

Feeling as though I'm going to be repeating myself here (And why the hell not? Richard and Karen basically repeated themselves going from "Close to You" to "We've Only Just Begun" so why should I be any different?), I have decided just to go with it an just write the same damn review. Sure, I could be the bigger person and compose something fresh but I've never been a bigger person — in spite of my generous height — and this by no means a bigger person blog. Thus, I have taken my last review of a Canadian number one by The Carpenters, edited it slightly and turned it into a form essay. Just insert song titles, band names and other details where needed. The score, appropriately enough, remains the same.

~~~~~

"Critical acclaim came too late for The Carpenters," states a somber Todd Nathanson at the beginning of his TrainWreckords episode on the duo's brave failure Passage. Indeed, they were probably an even bigger joke than (unfashionable seventies act) in the era prior to their reassessment. A turning point was the release of (ultra hip tribute album with loads of indie cred) in (relevant year). A rare tribute album from the (relevant decade) that didn't include (random artist who always seemed to appear on tribute albums; he/she was just there to ensure decent sales), it featured (hipster genre) and (same hipster genre repeated)-adjacent stars such as (band that cool people claim to like) and (singer-songwriter everyone pretends to despise) doing unique but affectionate covers of some of Richard and Karen's most famous numbers.

Like a lot of tribute albums, (ultra hip tribute album) is all over the place — though in this case more in terms of it being genre bending rather than its overall song quality. Most of the artists involved chose to stick to their own styles rather than mimicking The Carpenters. (indie band that will never, ever sell out!)'s "(random Carpenters' song)" sounds exactly like a grungy take on (random subgenre). (indie band you pretend to have heard of)'s "(yet another random Carpenters' song)" brings a welcome (trademark Generation X quirk) vibe that would never have occurred to the diligent Carpenters. 

The song that sticks out the most is The (band with a cult following though you can't name anything they ever did)'s "(Carpenters' song you happen to be reviewing)". The (American city: probably Seattle) quartet had only recently broken through with the yearning beauty of "(whatever song they did even if it didn't break through at all)" and their next major hit, the less engaging "(its rather sucky follow-up)", would be released just a few days after the Carpenters' tribute album came out. They were arguably the most popular act to participate and they had chosen one of Richard and Karen Carpenter's signature tracks. With all due respect to (lead singer of indie group), he/she was no Karen and it seemed like (band with a cult following) had bitten off more than they could chew.

(In retrospect, their version of "(Carpenters' song)" also stands out due to (lead singer/random bandmember's untimely (insert "death", "accident", "departure" or whatever else that may or may not apply here) as well as his/her dangerously (I don't know, just describe how bad they looked due to a drug addiction or drinking problem or the hideous tattoos they've subsequently acquired) appearance during the group's peak which in some ways mirrors Karen's tragic demise)

Listening to it today, however, I'm struck by wishing that The Carpenters' original was more like (indie band)'s remake. The latter feels like it was produced in house with little to no participation from anyone else which was seldom the approach taken by Richard and Karen. To be fair to them, they were young and easily swayed by record execs and studio producers. A&M Records' Herb Alpert and his colleague Jack Daughtery knew how to create hit singles and they were aware of how a (name of a songwriter) piece like "(Carpenters' song)" needed to be drenched in strings and backing vocals since they'd all been recorded that way. What they missed out on was getting the best out of Richard and Karen: the older brother did the arrangement and played some lovely piano while the younger sister sang as angelically as any human ever has. You'd think those elements would have been more than enough. (That said, The Carpenters would continue to rely far too much on members of the (LA-based session musicians) and various jazz musicians to flesh out their albums up to Karen's death. In all likelihood, they probably never even considered the possibility of doing stripped-down duo sessions)

Call it being sick of (songwriter) — and I've never been particularly fond of them in the first place — and/or the same damn LA studio cats who'd been playing on virtually everything over the past decade but I am done with this lush shit. Yes, somehow the same man who apologized for what Phil Spector had done to The Beatles' "Long and Winding Road" just over a week ago is now in open rebellion against flutes and oboes on Carpenters' records. Bloody hell, Richard and Karen aren't going to be treated well by me in the *checks notes* (a number no higher than four) reviews of their remaining Canadian number ones. Hopefully, this will pass before long. Either that or the critical reappraisal of The Carpenters is going to be taken to task no matter what the members of (band that cool people claim to like) will have you believe.

~~~~~

The only question that remains is will I do a similarly half-assed job the next time The Carpenters come up? Will I end up just posting the same damn thing a third, fourth and fifth time? I can't say for sure but it's possible. We'll just have to see what Richard and Karen have awaiting us. But I'm down for repeating myself if that's all they were capable of.

Score: 4

Sugarloaf: "Green-Eyed Lady"

October 31, 1970 (2 weeks)

Whether you're a lover or a hater it seems like everyone comes to progressive rock with the same prejudices. First, prog rock groups are expected to be British — or, at the very least, they're made up of London-based exiles originally from other parts of Europe. Second, their records by and large should be made up of a combination of complex, classically-derived arrangements, virtuoso soloing and lyrics centred around Norse mythology. Finally (and this is probably a consequence of the second one), band members must be as highfalutin as possible.

Yet, the first two prog groups to make it to number one on Canada's RPM hit parade were Mashmakhan and Sugarloaf. Both hailed from different parts of North America and, while their arrangements and playing were first rate, their songs were sadly free of references to Odin and the Bifrost and Stormbreaker (sorry, my knowledge of Norse myth is entirely dependent on the MCU's Thor movies) and they all looked like either apprentice pipe fitters or those weirdo career students you used to encounter (you know, back when higher education wasn't prohibitively expensive).

Yes, the members of Sugarloaf unknowingly bucked a number of trends that hadn't even become trendy by 1970. And while largely a British concern, the other traits are exaggerated anyway. Sure, Rick Wakeman of Yes would prance around in a blend of silks while playing mammoth church organs that were no doubt designed by Joseph Casavant and his progeny but he was more of an exceptional case. Meanwhile, Keith Emerson was hardly one to concern himself with how he looked while members of the prog-adjacent Supertramp proved that their name was all too fitting. Prog rockers were as likely to look like complete dirtbags as any of their contemporaries from such traditionally unwashed genres as folk and hard rock.

As for its lyrical content, "Green-Eyed Lady" could practically be dedicated to Sif. Well, perhaps not quite but there's plenty of mysticism present to make it close enough. The Eagles were by this point still a glint in Gram Parsons' eye and, thus, we were still a couple years away from the terrifying enchantress "Witchy Woman". Luckily, its counterpoint had already been written and recorded by the members of Sugarloaf. Rather than floating through life tripping on absinthe, however, the damsel in this narrative exists on a natural high. While the extended organ solo and overall sinister vibes suggest that something more untoward may occur, we are not privy to it. (I gave the extended version on their self-titled debut album a listen and musicianship is further fleshed out but not the story of this "child of nature, friend of man"; it doesn't appear they ever wrote a sequel about her either: how un-prog of them!)

While I can't quite say that I love it, "Green-Eyed Lady" is the sort of thing I'm grateful to be encountering while doing this blog. It's cool to think that prog rock was just about accessible to the wider public during its infancy. The members of Sugarloaf could really play but they seemed to also have an eye on hooks and engaging with listeners. Call me a biased Canadian but Mashmakhan's "As the Years Go By" is the stronger single, though maybe not by much. That said, I suspect that the band formerly known as Chocolate Hair — I can't decide if this name is brilliant or utterly hopeless but maybe it's both — would not go down as one-hit wonders. (They would have a second and final RPM/Hot 100 Top 10 hit with "Don't Call Us, We'll Call You" in the spring of 1975) They may not have ultimately cut it as prog rock royalty but they had the chops and could even look the part even if their nationality got in the way.

Score: 7

Neil Diamond: "Cracklin' Rosie"

October 17, 1970 (2 weeks)

Growing up, I always thought of Neil Diamond as someone who was in the record collections of people whose record collections I had no interest in thumbing through. He seemed to represent the ultimate Vegas crooner who people with good taste in music wanted to have nothing to do with. You couldn't even get on him for being a sell out because he never seemed to have any principles in the first place. Then, it emerged that he was also this talented songwriter who wrote "I'm a Believer" for The Monkees and "Red, Red Wine" which was eventually a massive hit for UB40. Turns out, he also had a dark heart that fed into proto-goth compositions like "Solitary Man" and "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon", the latter of which was memorably featured in 1994's Pulp Fiction. Then, we all discovered the sheer delight of "Sweet Caroline" from pub singalongs and as a karaoke favourite - and long before it became an arena/stadium cliche in the world of profession sports. The guy was a serious musical giant. 

Except he really wasn't for the most part. In truth, the opening paragraph lists just about everything the man accomplished of note. He wrote a few other songs (as I have already stated, "The Boat That I Row" is a banger but not until Lulu got a hold of it) but his recorded output is remarkably thin. No wonder the majority of his best remembered tracks were made popular by other artists. I was surprised to discover that he only had one solo Canadian number one (I will eventually be reviewing a duet that also topped the RPM hit parade) but then I realized that for such a popular recording artist, he doesn't have a great deal that has remained in the ether. No doubt Diamond loyalists remain and I wish them all the best but the rest of the world has quite happily moved on.

I feel that Diamond's biggest weakness was having an ambition that towered over his already considerable abilities. Was he a country crooner like Faron Young and George Jones? A jazz vocalist in the tradition of Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra? A seventies' singer-songwriter right up there with Carole King and Cat Stevens? He was sort of all of these things but couldn't quite nail any of them. Not quite a sonic shapeshifter (had he and Todd Rundgren been merged into a single being — God help us — this abomination would have qualified) but the sort of entertainer who, perhaps with the best of intentions, made the wrong-headed decision to be all things to all consumers of music. It didn't really work but he still made a very good career of it.

"Cracklin' Rosie" has elements that sound like a potentially good pop song. Diamond's gift for winning melodies is certainly present but his singing is way too all over the place. A vocalist with the ability/interest to pick a lane would have likely pulled off an effective less-is-more-approach. It could have been a pleasant country number or a lovely vocal jazz exercise. I don't necessarily hear a hit single like "I'm a Believer" or "The Boat That I Row" but it could have at the very least been a serviceable deep cut on an album by, say, Willie Nelson or Luther Vandross or maybe even Bryan Ferry. Rather than sounding lost as inexperienced vocalists might, he sounds all too sure of the way — only for him to trip over himself en route.

I know I come across here as an intolerable music snob but that's what people like Neil Diamond do to people like me. He could have crafted truly exquisite pop — and there are even rare instances in which he did — but he couldn't help get in the way. Many of his predecessors in the Tin Pan Alley/Brill Building American staff songwriter tradition had ambitions to be recording artists in their own right. While a few like Barry Mann and the duo of Boyce and Hart saw fleeting success, only a very select few managed to fully crossover. Neil Sedaka pulled it off by being the epitome of the pop star that he had been writing for. Carole King did so by gradually moving away from commercial pop and in the direction of opening herself up. But everything about Diamond's shift proved to be counterintuitive: a charismatic performer with a powerful range who could interpret the material of others better than the songs he wrote himself and a man who oversold what didn't need flogging in the first place.

Score: 3

Creedence Clearwater Revival: "Lookin' Out My Back Door"

September 26, 1970 (3 weeks)

"Dude, dude, dude, lookin' out my back door..."

It isn't one of the sillier nor more frequently discussed misheard lyrics (as opposed to, say, "there's a bathroom on the right"). It's always possible that John Fogerty and/or the various half-assed attempts to revive CCR have leaned into it but it's equally likely that they nor their many fans never even noticed either way. To the extent that the original song meant anything at all, its meaning isn't compromised with the alteration. It was only today that I learned that the actual line is "doo, doo, doo, lookin' out my back door".

It all comes down to The Big Lebowski. Yes, that great film from 1998 that hardly anyone saw at the time. (I had a co-worker at the bookstore I was working at who did see it relatively early on and he couldn't stop raving about it) Word-of-mouth was so positive but belated that we all ended up renting it at Blockbuster. And, yes, we all came away loving it and it wasn't long before the quotations were everywhere. (My personal favourite: "I Am the Walrus?")

CCR's second Canadian number one comes on during a bit of levity for The Dude. He's cruising around in his recently stolen piece of shit '73 Gran Torino with his beloved Creedence in the tape deck, Walter's recent freak out with a gun at the bowling alley and Bunny Lebowski's kidnapping and botched ransom drop off being the furthest things from The Dude's mind. All he needs is his car back and the chance to crank some CCR with a beer and a J and everything's cool, man. (Until he quickly discovers that he's being followed, that is) The 'doo's' aren't clear enough and so it feels like Fogerty wrote it as an ode to The Dude, Dude, Dude himself.

(Surprisingly, "Lookin' Out My Back Door" doesn't appear on The Big Lebowski soundtrack album, even though barely audible and far more trivial numbers like Captain Beefheart's "Her Eyes Are a Blue Million Miles" and Elvis Costello's "My Mood Swings" are included. This is a good example of how OSTs can sometimes present a narrative that is irreconcilable with how music is used in the movies they come from. Creedence might be The Dude's favourite group but you'd never know it given the accompanying CD. This reminds me a little of the film Juno in which Elliott Page's title character expresses her love for the Ramones, a band who are nowhere to be heard in either the movie itself or on its soundtrack album)

Within the context of the film, "Lookin' Out My Backdoor" can be appreciated but what about independent of it? An already fraying CCR seem to be enjoying the experience — which is confirmed by the accompanying promo — but sheer enthusiasm can only do so much. Fogerty's nonsense lyrics ("there's a giant doin' cartwheels, a statue wearin' high heels", etc., etc.) aren't intriguing enough to merit further analysis but that's not necessarily a bad thing either. For his part, the singer has claimed that it was written with his three-year-old son in mind which does track. Maybe that's what's holding it back as far as my affection goes: had it been in my life as a child then maybe I would have grown with it but having only been aware of it since my twenties I don't have that luxury. (That said, neither did The Dude who might've been working on the original Port Huron Statement — "not the compromised second draft" — when "Lookin' Out My Back Door" was released)

Music doesn't age as much is generally assumed. Rather, we age and age out of some of the music we once listened to. Sometimes it passes us by at the optimum age which is why I still love listening to "Yellow Submarine" which was a part of my childhood and why I'm less captivated by "Lookin' Out My Back Door" which wasn't. Still, CCR's output wasn't going to get any better so why not just enjoy this fun little campfire singalong instead? Fogerty wasn't really doing the heavy message songs like "Bad Moon Rising" anymore so this is what we were left with. We might as well be like The Dude and take it for what it is.

Score: 6

~~~~~

Can Con

Rest assured she'll be covered plenty of times in this space so it shouldn't disappoint too many that one of Anne Murray's most recognizable numbers fell just short of the number one spot on the RPM hit parade. The late songwriter Gene MacLellan didn't write "Snowbird" with fellow Maratimer Murray in mind but she seems like the only individual who could've scored a massive hit with it. As we'll soon see, she was a very big deal in her day and "Snowbird" gives you a pretty good idea as to why. No one ever managed to sound so mature while having a childlike delight in her voice as Springhill, Nova Scotia's finest. This quality wouldn't last but it would see her through a highly successful decade ahead. Being a rare country-adjacent song that opens with a sitar solo was bound to catch listeners off guard but it seems few objected — and why on earth would they? You know what? Scratch what I said at the start of this paragraph: it is a pity "Snowbird" never hit number one since it far outstrips bloody CCR (even with a single as relatively endearing as "Lookin' Out My Backdoor"). And I'm not entirely convinced it didn't completely outstrip the rest of Murray's catalog but I guess we'll have to wait and see just to be sure.

Edwin Starr: "War"

September 19, 1970 (1 week)

Muhammad Ali's exile from boxing amounted to three-and-a-half-years of raising a family, court appeals, money making schemes that mostly lost the Champ a great deal of bread and a lot of inactivity. He was in his mid-to-late twenties at the time so his refusal to accept his draft orders meant that he sacrificed a significant portion of his prime as a boxer — not to mention a great deal of money he would've earned along the way. This only adds to Ali's aura in retrospect but it caused him a great deal of stress even if he never regretted what he did.

The United States changed a great deal more than Ali did from 1967 to 1970 — though not always for the better. The liberal Lyndon Johnson (who, lest we forget, was a hawk when it came to the Vietnam War) stepped down from the Presidency and his successor was Richard Nixon. Yet, opposition to the conflict in Southeast Asia only grew. Meanwhile, the Motown label began to go establishment as they prepared to move from their homebase of Detroit to the glitz of Los Angeles, while, at the same time, many of the artists and songwriters in their employ started embracing social issues.

I recently discussed in passing The Temptations' hit single "Ball of Confusion". Rather than being a mere one off, however, the quintet had been dabbling in socially conscious music for a while. Composers Barrett Strong and Norman Whitfield had initially written "War" with them in mind but their version was destined to be just a deep cut on their 1970 album Psychedelic Shack. Still, it had all kinds of commercial potential and so the call went out to find someone who could make it into a hit. Edwin Starr hadn't made much of a name for himself by this stage so perhaps it was deemed suitable for him to record politically contentious song since it wasn't like it was going to further damage his reputation or anything.

Right from the off it is clear why Starr's version of "War" is more suitable than The Temptations'. He's forceful while their conviction, well, isn't as convincing. He really means it while they only mostly do. Tom Breihan hears more than a little James Brown in Starr's grunts and groans but I hear it more as one individual influencing another rather than brazen copying. He never sounds like anyone other than himself. Though a steamroller vocal with an unforgettable agit-prop chorus doesn't a classic make, it doesn't fall all that short of it either.

But before I get to my chief criticism, let's bask in some love for Starr. While label-mate Marvin Gaye has often been described as the kind of vocalist who could pull off "singing the phone book", had Starr been given that task, it's easy to picture him responding with a forceful "fuck that shit!". He had to have material that he genuinely believed in. It is any wonder he had difficulty catching on when all Berry Gordy and co. could give him was mostly sub-standard crap? (The major exception being the 1969 US/Canadian Top 10 hit "Twenty Five Miles" which is probably his finest single) While I may come away from repeated listens to "War" with no idea as to the meaning in the verses, my admiration for Starr only continues to grow. He makes his signature song in every way.

The Beatles were the only figures in popular culture who rivaled Muhammad Ali — even if by 1970 they were fading away just as he was returning to the spotlight — with John Lennon being every bit the loudmouth piece as the Louisville Slugger. "War" may have represented much of what Ali stood for but Lennon must have looked upon it with a certain envy. Those sloganeering choruses were a thing the so-called "smart one" had been working on as early as 1967's "All You Need Is Love". Though successful and memorable, they tended to be low on substance (the "popeyes and rabbis..." verse of "Give Peace a Chance" may well be Lennon's single worst lyric). Though the by-now erstwhile Beatle would praise "War", it is beset by a similar faulty craftsmanship: all sizzle, no steak. And like Lennon himself, Strong and Whitfield had the pop background that should've made them know better.

Score: 7

Mungo Jerry: "In the Summertime"

September 6, 1970 (2 weeks)

While hardly the worst thing about it, I found myself not being able to get past the fact that Miguel Rios' "A Song of Joy" was released smack dab in the middle of the summer. It would have been hard enough to take as a Christmas number one but at least it would have been understandable. This is a position winter and/or seasonal songs can't seem to avoid. Leaving aside pure Christmas favourites, I once blogged about a short lived Liverpool group from the early nineties called River City People. Their sole UK Top 20 hit was with a cover of The Mamas and the Papas' "California Dreamin'" which was released in the summer of 1990. I don't know if anyone else thought it weird but I found the idea of them singing of going "for a walk on a winter's day" very out of place in the midst of a very hot summer.

True summer hits rarely get bogged down by this. You can appreciate either the joy of the sunshine and holidays or the melancholy that comes along with them during your break from school or work. Alternately, you may use them to escape the snow, freezing air, icy streets and bitter winds by taking in the summer fun out of season. Sly and the Family Stone's "Hot Fun in the Summertime", The Lovin' Spoolful's "Summer in the City", Bananarama's "Cruel Summer", Belle and Sebastian's "Summer Wasting": they all work no matter what time of the year it happens to be.

Mungo Jerry's one major North American hit had already been released in the UK and Ireland that June and would top the charts in both countries as a carefree summer anthem. Delays that came with shipping times along with the glacial pace of the charts during this period ensured that "In the Summertime" wouldn't reach its Canadian and US peaks until the cottages by the lake had been boarded up and the kids were back in school bluffing their way through trying to speak French. Rather than being handicapped by this, however, it comes across even better due to its tardiness. The summer that was dragged down by reruns on TV and too many rainy camping trips suddenly seems appealing when the leaves are changing colour and the homework is piling up.

The late sixties movement towards roots music seemed handcuffed to a tedious seriousness. No group epitomized this better than The Band. An accomplished live act with a high standard of group interplay between its five members, they were deeply influential and remain highly regarded by fellow musicians, critics and fans to this day. As a collective they were also gigantic bores. Though at least three of them — Rick Danko, Richard Manuel and Robbie Robertson — were talented songwriters, that Weight that they so stirringly sang of seemed to follow them around. Their material was bereft of humour and they smacked of the sort of people who would look down upon pop or any kind of music that might engage with audiences. The image of a stern Levon Helm on drums seemed to spread to the others even if it may have clashed with their real personalities. (In the documentary Festival Express, a chemically-aided Danko happily duets with Janis Joplin with backing from members of The Grateful Dead. The singer has a boyish charm while acting like a total horndog and he looks relaxed. He clearly isn't some phony pioneer type chopping down lumber for a living in spite of what The Band's mythology would have you believe)

They may have played basic — even primitive — instruments but Mungo Jerry weren't about to be sucked in to some 'real men playing real music' nonsense. If a member of your band is blowing into jugs then you can't get too high and mighty, can you? Tempting though it may be to dismiss "In the Summertime" as good, inconsequential fun, I'd say those are qualities that some of their contemporaries could've done with. Their perspectives on drinking and driving ("have a drink, have a drive, go out and see what you can find") and the opposite sex ("if her daddy's poor, just do what you feel") aren't great but what are a bunch of free spirits in the middle of the sexual revolution to do but be caught up in excess?

"In the Summertime" is a very likable song but only up to a point. It doesn't command attention, doesn't expect us to listen to it on repeat. It doesn't need to be heard many times before it implants itself in the mind. Like Billy Joel's "My Life" and Blondie's "The Tide Is High", it is one of those tunes that it feels like it was always around despite the fact that my parents never had it on record when I was growing up. While some overly familiar numbers can surprise you when re-visiting them in adulthood, Mungo Jerry's signature hit sounds more or less the same as it always did. This is no bad thing only that it leaves "In the Summertime" as the type of thing you never need to hear again. Unless, of course, it's summer — or winter.

Score: 7