Simon and Garfunkel: "Mrs. Robinson"

May 18, 1968 (2 weeks)

There's a story that Joe DiMaggio once confronted Paul Simon over the reference to him having "left and gone away". Joltin' Joe was still alive and was seen on TV commercials and was still a figure of some significance, particularly in New York where he starred for the Yankees. Simon is said to have responded that this line was more to do with there being no heroes left (and, since the Yankee Clipper was shilling on TV, he couldn't have been much of one anymore) right when the United States of America needed one. 

(Was Joe DiMaggio a hero? I mean, he gave up three years of his Hall-of-Fame baseball career to serve in the US armed forces but his main role was to play exhibition games to entertain the troops. His remarkable fifty-six game hitting streak in particular and all-star career in general ensured he'd be a much-admired player. So, too, was his $100,000 contract with the Yankees and his marriage to Marilyn Monroe but none of this is particularly heroic. Still, I suppose if the public views someone as a hero then that's what they become whether it's deserved or not)

Yes, America in 1968 was evidently lacking a hero for the country to rally around at a crucial time. Muhammad Ali? Yeah, fuck that guy apparently. Oh but he was a divisive figure! No, he stood up for what he believed in and then the establishment came after him. They were the divisive ones. New Yorkers like Paul Simon have a tendency to fail to see beyond their vast hometown where DiMaggio may not have been as revered. Plus, even within the five boroughs there were plenty of fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants who may not have had the same esteem that Yankee fans had for him. Yes, DiMaggio was (and remains) respected and even beloved but I'm not sure he was much of a unifying force to begin with. (With all that said, could a national hero have done much in the sixties? Neil Armstrong would set foot on the Moon a year after this and his great feat didn't exactly do anything to end polarization)

There is a point to all this, I promise. One of Simon's weaknesses as a lyricist was the way he would hammer through all kinds of theories and notions all the while ending up in a dense fog of incomprehensibility. Yet, when he could be understood, his ideas felt hollow. Much of "Mrs. Robinson" dwells in vagueries about a "pantry with your cupcakes" and "going to the candidate's debate" which may have a poetic ring to them but are otherwise empty calories. Bob Dylan and John Lennon could get away with nonsense verse because there was typically something for listeners to grasp onto. (Dylan's "Positively 4th Street" is supposedly about someone known to the singer-songwriter but it really doesn't matter since many will identify with its feelings of resentment) Simon, by contrast, seemed to trade in pseudo-intellectualisms that I may admire but seldom connect with.

Troublesome lyrics aside, there is one more thing to "Mrs. Robinson" that turns me off a little: its length. While four minutes doesn't seem like much and there are two vastly longer Canadian number ones coming up, Simon's distinctive acoustic guitar riff really does wear out its welcome after the third or fourth go round of the chorus. And what's with the twenty seconds or so of absent-minded soloing at the end? Had Simon and Garfunkel struggled to bring it to a satisfying conclusion or were they signalling that the bloody thing could've gone on even longer?

I could bitch at length over my distaste for Paul Simon — and, believe me, I have — but there's lots to like about Simon and Garfunkel at their very best. "Mrs. Robinson" is nearly there but it is neither as engaging as their early work nor as impressive as much of what makes up their masterpiece Bridge Over Troubled Water. (Some cite Bookends as the better LP but I respectfully disagree even though the track "America" absolutely slaps) If I am only half-paying attention then it's a pretty great song. I'll always prefer to sing along with "The Boxer" but I can get into "Mrs. Robinson" in spite of myself. I could stand to learn from a pair of New York elites on not being such a rotten snob, you know.

Score: 6

The Rascals: "A Beautiful Morning"

May 11, 1968 (1 week)

As followers of this blog will have no doubt noticed, the pickings have been awfully slim as of late. After a rather splendid — if short lived — run of excellence covering "Itchycoo Park", "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight" and "Baby, Now That I've Found You", there has been very little of note. (The very fact that a Herman's Hermits hit is arguably the finest of the lot says it all) But even when held up against the mid-level chart toppers, the recent quality has been poor.

Thus, "A Beautiful Morning" is an appropriately welcome ray of sunshine to this space. Anything remotely listenable would've been appreciated but The Rascals' fifth RPM number one would be a highlight even if it had been alongside your average fare of the age. (Come to think of it, all this bubblegum pop detritus was your average fare of this particular age)

While their first two chart toppers - "Good Lovin'" and "Groovin'" respectively — had The (then) Young Rascals hitting the ground running, they struggled somewhat to recapture the frenetic energy of the latter and the laid back charm of the former. "A Girl Like You" and, particularly, "How Can I Be Sure" weren't disasters but they still couldn't hope to compete with their predecessors. While they continued to knock out number ones in Canada, returns seemed to be diminishing elsewhere, including in their native United States. While they would never quite return to rollicking heights of "Good Lovin'" (though I don't imagine they had much desire to do so), "A Beautiful Morning" is a return to the graceful R&B of "Groovin'".

While the image of The Rascals was not unlike many within psychedelic rock, they sounded much more at home alongside some of the finest soul acts of the era. Like The Rolling Stones on the much maligned Their Satanic Majesties' Request, The Rascals had already excised the acid pop from their systems with on fourth album Once Upon a Dream. It's a more than respectable work but it was bogged down by comparisons to The Beatles' tour-de-force Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. (Co-leader Felix Cavaliere didn't help matters when he hyped it as "Pepperish" to the Melody Maker in the lead up to its release) But with that out of the way, they could get back to what they did best: mellow vibes for the Beautiful People to trip out on.

And who couldn't love "A Beautiful Morning" (even if you happen to be one of those sad people who claim to hate hippies)? It's not unlike (them again) The Beatles' "Good Day Sunshine", only you likely haven't heard it too many times. Or it's like (jesus, lay off all the Fab Four talk!) The Beatles' "Good Morning Good Morning", only it's missing the cynical humour. (Which may or may not be a bad thing depending on who you ask and/or what mood they're in) It's so good that it managed to survive despite the better part of a decade as the theme song to McDonald's pimping out their Egg McMuffins. If you're anything like me then you might well hum it to yourself as you're walking the dog or heading over to catch the bus — even if it happens to be miserable out. And if you happen to be one of those silly night owls then you probably don't deserve to have this minor masterpiece in your life anyway. That's right: I said what I said.

~~~~~

Finally, a little more on their re-christening from The Young Rascals to simply The Rascals. While hardly the most radical re-branding, it was apparently important enough for them to go through with it at the start of 1968. It was the name they had intended but they hadn't been permitted previously. Personally, I prefer the original. We've already met the rather poor Spanky and Our Gang and we didn't need yet another pop group who brought to mind the likes of Alfalfa and Buckwheat, particularly at pretty much the same time. Either way, though, it isn't a great name and one that didn't really suit them anyway. While they were able to carry on successfully after the name change (at least for a while), you have to wonder if it was really worth the trouble. In any case, they're hardly the only example of a good group with a lousy name (English sophiti-pop group Prefab Sprout are still the champs in this regard) so that's all I'll say on the matter.

Score: 8

Bobby Goldsboro: "Honey"

April 27, 1968 (2 weeks)

I spend far too much time on the social media app Threads. (I keep meaning to join Bluesky but one of these damn things is more than enough) While I have come across occasional bits of worthy music discussion, the majority of what I've encountered is the same old turgid crap. Stuff like, Remember the time U2 put a free album on iTunes and everyone freaked the fuck out??? or Can you name an album with no skips? or If I have to choose between Blur or Oasis, I'd choose Pulp. For the love of god.

Quite often I'll see a What is the worst song ever and why is it What's Up by 4 Non Blondes? thread (or something to that effect). Quite apart from the fact that if these dummies are able to answer their own question then maybe they should be explaining why (or, better yet, keep this shit to themselves), these clickbaity posts make me wonder if songs like "What's Up" and "We Built This City" are just stock answers now. (And, hey, I can hardly blame posters for offering these easy, thoughtless answers since they're responding to social media slop) Still, the music nerd in me can't help but shudder a bit since these people do not have even the slightest sliver of an idea what a crappy song is.

Just going by what's been included on this blog, have they heard "The Purple People Eater"? "Paper Roses"? "Donald, Where's Your Trousers?"? "Bread and Butter"? "Don't Think Twice"? "Simon bloody Says"? And these are just the absolute stinkers at the bottom: the Canadian number ones that have received scores of 2 or 3 from me aren't much better. Spoiler alert: Starship's "We Built This City" will eventually come up for consideration in this space. While I don't anticipate giving it an especially high score, I don't think it will be down with the dregs either. (Actually, I know exactly the score I'm going to give it but you're just going to have to wait!)

Which brings us to "Honey", an incredibly popular song at the time but one that has become nearly universally disliked by critics ever since. Aidan Curran describes it as "twee, simpering, condescending, hypermaudlin schlock" (I can confirm that every word of this analysis is correct). Meanwhile, the best thing Tom Breihan can say about it is that it isn't as awful as "The Ballad of the Green Berets" (again, no arguments coming from me). (The single's Wikipedia page isn't completely impartial itself with a claim that its status as one of the 'Worst Songs of All Time' is "hyperbolic") What strikes me is how it starts poorly and only gets worse from there. The last few seconds is a tasteless mush of choir and strings and almost makes me long for Bobby Goldsboro's insincere pleas from the beginning.

Where "Honey" really stands out though is in its ability not to imprint anything whatever on the listener. "We Built This City" has been stuck in the public consciousness for over forty years — which explains why it has remained so disliked — while Goldsboro's signature hit is somehow erased from the memory as soon as it is over. I have listened to it many times over the past week or so and I still can't recall a line from it or even the glimmer of its melody. My only takeaway is that while it does bring out the urge to be sick while its playing, my symptoms appear to clear up as soon as I've turned it off. Along with its advancing age, this is perhaps why very few on social media seem aware of this crime to recorded music.

1968 is beginning to look like an especially bad year for Canadian number ones. Bubblegum pop was already doing its part in dragging the charts down. Not to be outdone, maudlin country balladry came along and said "hold my beer!" and a new standard of crumminess had been set.

Score: 1

The Union Gap: "Young Girl"

April 20, 1968 (1 week)

So let's try to be as generous as possible. This guy knows what's been going on is wrong. He wants this young girl to go home to her mother so she can get on with the rest of her life and he can act like nothing happened. He's blaming himself at least as much as he's blaming her. (As the "get out of my mind" line in the chorus implies, he's responsible for his own thoughts) He didn't intend to be such a giant creep.

I shall now refute much of my generosity. Knowing it's wrong really doesn't make it any better and in fact takes what could plausibly be adjudicated a serious mental health issue and turns it into a straightforward crime. While going home would probably do her some good, this advice places the bulk of the responsibility on her shoulders. Sure, he blames himself for having some disturbing thoughts but she's still the one causing them. Creeps are seldom self-aware.

"Young Girl" makes for an uncomfortable listen in this day and age. Actually, it's hard to believe this hasn't always been the case but I can recall hearing it on sixties radio as a kid and not noticing just how inappropriate it is. I didn't care for it back then either but that was just because I couldn't stand the sound of Gary Puckett's overblown operatic voice. Now, it is perhaps the least offensive aspect of "Young Girl".

Like Anita Bryant's unbearable "Paper Roses", The Union Gap's biggest international hit would be an easy thing to crap all over even if it wasn't such a bad song; the fact that it is the shits to listen to is a bonus. While not quite as dreadful — Puckett's over-singing is still preferable to Bryant's ghastly excuse for a voice — it is still just as unnecessary to have around anymore. There are at least a couple more crappy Union Gap singles that oldies radio can play instead. It was a different time? It sure was — and that's precisely why we can happily leave "Young Girl" in the past where it belongs.

Score: 2

~~~~~

Hey! Where's...

I've been phasing out these extras of late but it's fun to occasionally bring them back. While it's hardly a chart injustice or anything but it's notable to see The Beatles stuck at number two while a pair of lousy singles had the top spot. "Lady Madonna" had been in the runner up spot while The Monkee's were in first place with "Valleri" and it remained there for "Young Girl". While hardly the Fab Four's finest work, it's still a rousing number with nifty fifties' piano work from Paul McCartney. Released while The Beatles were off in Rishikesh, India studying Transcendental Meditation and unknowingly entering their last act, it's a step up from the mediocre "Hello, Goodbye" but still not close to their peak. I tend to think it should've been released as an E.P. along with "Across the Universe", "The Inner Light" and "Hey Bulldog" which would've made for a more satisfying package. Meanwhile, coming up short no doubt gave the critics yet another chance to theorize over The Beatles going downhill. Relax guys, it won't be long now.

The Monkees: "Valleri"

April 13, 1968 (1 week)

Stan Mikita was a Slovak-born Canadian hockey player. A really good hockey player. He led the NHL in scoring several times and would eventually wind up enshrined in the Hockey Hall of Fame. Since he retired back in 1980, he is perhaps best known to my fellow Generation Xers for 'Stand Mikita's Donuts', a fictional coffee and doughnut franchise from the Wayne's World cinematic universe and obvious spoof of Canada's famous Tim Horton's chains. (For my part, I associate him more as being one of a handful of notable celebs with whom I share a birthday. Philosopher John Stewart Mill and singers Joe Cocker, Cher, Israel "Bruddah Iz" Kamakawiwo'ole and Nick Heyward are the others)

An oft-told story about Mikita is about his supposed change of heart from frequently penalized roughian to gentleman of the game. It is said that his young daughter had been watching him play on TV and later asked her daddy why he spent so much of the game "sitting down". It then dawned on Mikita that being in the penalty box for so long wasn't helping his team. In a remarkably short period of time his penalty minutes dropped off a cliff. He would soon end up winning the Lady Byng Trophy as the NHL's most gentlemanly player.

The story doesn't end there though. Mikita played his entire career for the Chicago Blackhawks, a talented but underachieving club for much of the sixties. He along with Bobby Hull, Glenn Hall and Pierre Pilote gave them a formidable top four but they routinely ended up getting bounced out of the playoffs by the more disciplined Toronto Maple Leafs, the deeper Montreal Canadiens or the tougher Detroit Red Wings. While it's certainly true that Mikita's habit of taking too many penalities hadn't helped the Blackhawks' cause, the playoff upsets continued even with his more well-mannered style of play. Gradually, his penalty minutes began to go back up, albeit not to the same grotesque extent of his early career.

I bring up this anecdotes because I think it illustrates how easy it can be to fall back into old habits. The Monkees had been formed as a vehicle for a sitcom as well as having records released in their name — but with a mandate that while Mickey Dolenz, Davy Jones, Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork would handle vocal duties, the musicianship would be kept mainly to studio pros. This worked a charm until the quartet staged a successful coup, wresting control away from the suits and giving them free reign over their singles and albums. Yet, this bid for self-sufficiency that they had fought so hard for wasn't to last: by the beginning of 1968, they once again began to rely more and more on sessioners. In effect, they group who had been belittled for not playing on their hits had reverted back to once again not playing on the few remaining hits they had left in the tank.

(I say "they" but it's worth noting that The Monkees' sixth and final Canadian number one features just a quarter of their membership. Davy Jones appears on lead vocals and that's where it begin and ends as far as Prefab Four involvement)

Reverting really is the name of the game on "Valleri" as well as on its accompanying album The Birds, the Bees and the Monkees. (The previously released "Daydream Believer" is the only one of its twelve tracks to include all four members and only one other track — "Auntie's Municipal Court" — has even two of them together; Peter Tork, in a move which foreshadowed his departure from the group at the end of the year, doesn't appear at all beyond his "Daydream Believer" piano part) In addition to the use of outside musicians, their penultimate Canadian hit marked the return of Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart to The Monkees' camp. (Though not as forgettable, its rather irritating follow-up "W.D. Washburn" somehow made it all the way to number two at the start of the summer) Yet despite having recently been at number one on the RPM hit parade with the perfect pop of "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight", the pair failed to gift their favourite act anything close what they had saved for themselves. Even when held up against a brainless trifle like "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You", "Valleri" still comes across as underwritten and insubstantial.

Davy Jones was never the finest singer in The Monkees — though he also wasn't the worst (sorry Peter) — but he could typically be relied upon to add some charm. Not here though. His role appears to have been reduced to shouting over the racket. In turn, the noise seems to be there just to cover up for the fact that the song is so slight. Two verses of trite sentiment (even though the second verse hints at an Ugly Duckling-esque tale which Boyce and Hart neglected to elaborate on) and a chorus repeated ad infinitum. The studio musicians more than earn their modest session fees but that's about the best thing I can say about this real nothing burger of a single.

So that brings an end to The Monkees story on this blog. While a top chart act for only around a year-and-a-half, they sure packed a lot into their time on top. In addition to their hit TV series (which had only just been cancelled), they had two standout chart toppers, two more that were above average and a pair that basically sucked. Not exactly models of consistency but they nevertheless did quite a bit better than most would have predicted. Plus, they experienced an entire lifespan of your normal pop group in such a short period of time. And they were pop puppets who took back control, only for them to relinquish it when they couldn't or wouldn't handle it themselves. They were pioneers for all future manufactured groups who aspired to creativity and independence but who wound up in over their heads. And people say The Velvet Underground were influential.

Score: 2

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

April 6, 1968 (1 week)

As everyone knows by now, the shift from one decade to another is largely meaningless. The future that we either can't imagine or are far too fanciful about doesn't occur simply because, say, the fifties comes to an end and is replaced by the sixties. (This is a fact that has been easier to accept in the post-Millennial world of climate change and regressive conservative policies) At best, a decade is able to soft launch and then gradually fade away over the course of roughly five years.

English critic Taylor Parkes has labeled the era from 1978 to 1983 as the 'eighventies', a period in which the seventies closed out and eighties opened up over the same time. Pretty much the same thing happened ten years earlier as well during what might have been dubbed the 'sevixties'. Musically speaking, one the first signs of this transition was the rise of hard rock in around '68, which will be coming to this blog in a few weeks. The other was what was to become Philly soul.

Smooth African-American pop was nothing new in the late sixties. This blog has already encountered The Rays' "Silhouettes", The Silhouettes' "Get a Job" and The Platters' "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" while much of Smokey Robinson's sixties output ("You've Really Got a Hold on Me", "The Tracks of My Tears", "I Second That Emotion": damn, how did he never have a Canadian number one?) leaned towards the slick side, even by Motown's standards. But very little until now had been so lush, so produced. In a rare case of black music borrowing from white pop, the influence of Phil Spector, Brian Wilson and baroque pop really began to grasp on to soul.

There will be far better examples of Philly soul to come — especially with the rise of funk music which gave it the shot in the arm it needed — but The Delfonics' "La-La (Means I Love You)" is as good enough a place to start as any. The original lineup of brothers William and Wilbert Hart and Randy Cain had gorgeous harmonies, the kind of which even The Temptations would have envied. Their signature song is really nice to have on but it does lend itself to being relegated to the background. It isn't especially moving or heart stopping the way seventies' soul acts — or even some eighties' quiet storm artists — managed to do with relative ease. It's just there. A good if unremarkable song in a year with its fair share of dismal pop hits. Better music would eventually come along, even if the 'sevixties' also had more than enough crap to answer for.

Score: 6

Georgie Fame: "The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde"

March 23, 1968 (2 weeks)

"As I mentioned above, Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames will be appearing again in this space before long so we'll see if (a) he managed to get the hang of this jazz-pop stuff, (b) he somehow or other got worse at it or (c) he gave up and decided just to be another British invasion beat act. I'm not going to spoil the surprise so I'll be on a Fame embargo for a little while which won't be hard since I barely knew who he was until just recently".

Such were my closing thoughts in my first review of a number one smash by the former Clive Powell. We are now at his third and final RPM chart topper so I think the points above can now be answered.

(a) He got the hang of that jazz-pop lark - at least for a little while.

(b) If he didn't quite get worse at it, he sure as hell didn't improve beyond some early promise.

(c) He didn't resort to jumping on the British Invasion bandwagon just as it was grinding to a halt. Unfortunately, he moved in the direction of novelty Dixieland Americana instead.

Sixties' solo artists tended to be at a disadvantage when it came to their career paths. The majority were reliant on outside compositions which put them in the position of someone else calling the shots. (The one real exception in "British" pop was the American-born Scott Walker who became an accomplished songwriter,.even if his creative emergence seemed to coincide with faltering commercial prospects) Fame had been locked in with backing group The Blue Flames but their role began to take a backseat as the decade started to wind down. Though previous number ones "Yeh Yeh" and "Get Away" were flawed, they had a stylish, Continental appeal that fitted in with Sean Connery-era James Bond films and the novels of John le Carré. As for Stateside gangster films? Yeah, not quite so seamless.

I can sort of get what Fame was trying for on "The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde" but I still can't help but wish that an old legend like Jack Teagarden had been recruited instead. (Yeah fine, the trombonist/singer from Paul Whiteman's orchestra and Louis Armstrong's group had been dead for four years by this point but it's still nice to dream) The panache of "Yeh Yeh" is nowhere to be found. While many British singers sound right at home pretending to be American, Fame sounds painfully out of his element. Songwriters Mitch Murray and Peter Callandar had been so inspired by the film Bonnie and Clyde that they promptly wrote this tribute which, appropriately enough, sounds hastily assembled. The lyrics are not quite accurate while the arrangement leans too far towards old time jazz-pop cliches. And despite being just over three minutes in length, it still wears out its welcome at around the halfway mark.

An odd quirk involving Georgie Fame was that his chart success was largely sink or swim. His trio of RPM chart toppers represents seventy-five percent of his total chart activity in Canada while in his native Britain, he had several Top 40 entries but only three of which managed to place in the top quarter — and they all happened to go to number one. (They were the same three singles that went all the way to the top in Canada) Nevertheless, it's an achievement to have multiple number ones, something he should be proud of to this day. Yet, by the time he was reduced to recording this dismal number it should have been clear that his run was just about done — and not a moment too soon.

Score: 2

1910 Fruitgum Company: "Simon Says"

March 16, 1968 (1 week)

The unjustly maligned "Revolution 9" aside, there may not be a more disliked Beatles' original than "Maxwell's Silver Hammer". The negative feelings go all the way to the top, with three quarters of the Fab Four either despising it outright (John Lennon) or having grown completely sick of it due to Paul McCartney's perfectionism in the studio (George Harrison and Ringo Starr). As if following their lead, virtually everyone — including many die hard Beatle obsessives — has a similar intolerance for it. Ian MacDonald described it as "tasteless" while Ian Leslie argues that its presence on Abbey Road allowed for John to construct a "public narrative in which McCartney was the cute populist, [while] Lennon [was] the fearless artist".

Complicating matters is that "Maxwell" is well made. McCartney's skills as a master pop craftsman are on display and the other Beatles (those who showed up to play on it at any rate; Lennon not being among them) are also in fine form. The production is clear, the arrangement is nice and who doesn't love a good Moog synthesizer solo? All that said, while it sounds nice, it's still awful. (My main gripe with "Maxwell" is lyrically: the rhyme schemes — "Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine", "Rose and Valerie, screaming from the gallery — are too contrived to be believable while it's unclear if the murderous title character is meant to be a university undergrad or an eight year old; while McCartney could put hours of care into his music and arrangements, he could lack attention to detail when it came to the words)

There is more than a little of "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" in 1910 Fruitgum Company's debut Canadian number one "Simon Says", minus McCartney's Midas touch. Well made? Sure, I suppose so. The members of this band with the insanely stupid name sound like a capable group. Yet, they were going for the lowest common denominator and in this particular era that meant bubblegum pop. The clever strategy would have been to subversively edge the kids along with them but instead they chose to go out of their way to appeal to them. And, credit to them, it seemed to work. Though they never had a number one smash down in their native United States, the Fruitgum boys did okay for themselves for little while. (Sadly, we'll be seeing them twice more in this space) While they had their (presumably youthful) fanbase, their childish tunes probably inspired just as much of a backlash.

"Sometimes there is no gulf wider than the one between the 12 and the 13 year old boy," observes Tom Ewing in his review of the wretched novelty pop "Star Trekkin'" by The Firm. Too true. Sightly less contentious, though still noticeable, is the divide between kids who are just starting school and those who've been in it for a bit. A kindergarten student might really be into "Simon Says" as it plays in the gymnasium while standing in a circle with his classmates waving a parachute up and down. Join the big kids who sit at desks and learn about passe compose in French class and it becomes the first kind of music that they begin to look down upon. The kind of song that an eight year old would be embarrassed to even mindlessly tap their toes to. Perhaps the first example of how music doesn't age but listeners sure as shit do.

Score: 1

Bee Gees: "Words"

March 9, 1968 (1 week)

@spittingonbaldspots355        2 days ago

April 2026 anyone?

👍 87    👎    Reply

@PaulHeartsTelstar        1 day ago

OMG! I'm listening to Words in the same month of the same year as you! We must have a connection! Either that or this is just one hell of a popular song with millions of views.

@prussiansonthegolfcourse        3 years ago

What a song! I'm building a time machine to go back to the sixties...who's with me???

👍 513    👎    Reply

@PaulHeartsTelstar        1 day ago

I think I'll give it a miss actually. I don't want to risk accidentally killing one of my parents or triggering a butterfly effect that prevents them from meeting in the first place or getting involved with a member of the Manson Family. I'm happy just to idealize the past from the safe distance of the future, as God intended.

@uncoolfriend4chad        7 months ago

According to Wikipedia Robin Gibb appears on harmony vocals but I can't hear him at all. What do the rest of you think?

👍 6    👎    Reply

@PaulHeartsTelstar        1 day ago

Yeah, I don't hear him either. It sounds like a Barry Gibb solo work to me. I wonder if Barry had his part deleted which then played a part in Robin's departure in 1969.

@thisisanailshop        4 years ago

You think that I don't even mean

A single word I say

It's only words and words are all I have

To take your heart away

Words to live by...thank you Bee Gees. ❤

👍 408    👎    Reply

@PaulHeartsTelstar        1 day ago

Not to be that guy (even though I am that guy and always have been) but they're still only words as the Bee Gees themselves said. Plus, if the girl or guy he's singing to thinks he's completely full of shit then why shouldn't we feel the same? Of course, I'm just a sad old fart whose words have never done anything for anyone's hearts. Keep living your truth!

@SkegnessRocker

Such a great song from the late sixties. And what has come out since then? Nothing but crap!

👍 38    👎    Reply

@PaulHeartsTelstar        1 day ago

Hear, hear! I'm with ya buddy! 👊 There has been so much crap since then! That includes plenty of crap from the Bee Gees themselves, am I right? Not to mention Andy Gibb, Barbra Streisand, Dolly Parton, Kenny Rodgers, Dionne Warwick, Diana Ross...an endless parade of crap.

Score: 4

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

March 2, 1968 (1 week)

"We're just about done with Peter Noone on this blog and I can't say I'm going to miss the cheeky bugger."

Or so I claimed last November, the last time a Herman's Hermits single came up for consideration. Even though I didn't hate their cover version of The Kinks' "Dandy", it was clear that it succeeded in spite of the Hermit treatment; it only made me appreciate Ray Davies' songwriting genius even more than I already do.

So, I ought to be glad that they're finally bowing out after six RPM number ones and for the most part I am. Half-a-dozen is more than enough. Tom Ewing and Aidan Curran only had to write a single review apiece ("I'm Into Something Good" being their sole British and Irish chart topper) while Tom Breihan had just a pair to cover ("Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter" and "I'm Henry VIII, I Am" which, surprisingly though mercifully, somehow failed to hit the top of the charts in Canada). Those guys might be able to write me under the table but how would they fare with having to share their thoughts on six chart toppers by Herman's bloody Hermits. That said, a small part of me is sad to see them go.

It's bizarre to think that Herman's Hermits were still a relevant chart act by the end of the sixties. They had seen off the majority of the competition — longtime rivals Peter and Gordon had begun to fade a year earlier — with the remaining elements of the British Invasion having grown into serious recording artistes with concept albums and drug addictions. Yet, with bubblegum pop at its peak, there was still a place for Peter Noone and his band who may or may not have played on their records. Noone was still young and boyish enough to hang with Davy Jones of The Monkees and that was more than enough of a reason to stick around.

Previous Hermit hits were unconvincing. In their cover of "Silhouettes", we're expected to believe that Noone would have drunkenly stalked his best girl so they he may catch her in the act of cheating on him. Nope, I don't buy it. On "Listen People", he's delivering an allegedly profound message of peace and understanding to a populace that had been looking to The Beatles and Bob Dylan for "the answer". Again, a good try but his nibs was out of his depth. This is what makes "I Can Take or Leave Your Loving" so refreshing: I can imagine him saying this to a groupie or even to a girl-next-door with a pretty smile. This is only from listening to it casually, as the narrative paints the young woman as the one at fault while our hero attempts to put on a brave face. This is the acceptable, pop-friendly side but I prefer to think of it as him having a nonchalant view on relationships in general. I mean, why else would he sound this chipper?

But that is the thing with Noone: very few in pop sound as genuinely optimistic as he does — and all the better for it since he sounds like he's being himself for once. "I Can Take or Leave Your Loving" isn't all that special in the scheme of things but I think it does fairly well when held up against the new generation of American bubblegum groups. It has no more substance than what the likes of The Union Gap and Paul Revere and the Raiders were putting out but it has a chorus you might want to sing along with and a melody that could see you through your day. Will I miss having to review Herman's Hermits singles? Not particularly but this final go has given me a newfound respect for Noone (as well as whoever it is that happens to be playing on this). Good to go out on a high note!

Coming up, a vocal group of considerable importance. One who took themselves very seriously while quite often appearing to be a joke. Barry, Maurice and Robin Gibb could've learned a thing or two from shameless spotlight hogger like Peter Noone.

Score: 6

Classics IV: "Spooky"

February 24, 1968 (1 week)

"What the hell is this place, this music? Since when do you listen to the Classics IV? What the hell did you do here? Who the hell are you?"

It was in the classic Six Feet Under episode "The Room" that main character Nate Fischer learns of just how little he knows about his recently deceased father Nathaniel. Discovering some unusual bookkeeping practices at his family's funeral home, he seeks out individuals who made unconventional deals for burials of family members. A mechanic exchanged regular oil changes for a funeral service while a horticulturalist gives Nate his father's monthly supply of hydroponic weed. Finally, he meets the owner of an Indian restaurant who shows him a secret room that his father would use.

Nate looks around the dusty, unkempt room and soon begins to rummage through a crate of records. Having previously believed his dad to have been mostly interested in old big band tunes, he is surprised to discover pop and rock in his collection. He puts on The Amboy Dukes' "Journey to the Center of the Mind" and imagines his father playing cards, doing drugs the bikers, sleeping with mysterious women and firing a gun out the window just for the hell of it. He then smokes some weed himself and has a fantasy chat with his dad over the mellow sounds of the Classics IV.

As with all music used in Six Feet Under, "Spooky" is an excellent choice of soundtrack for this scene. (A third selection, "Let's Go Out Tonight" by Craig Armstrong and Paul Buchanan, plays at the episode's end and it's in a very poignant scene) Nate has been chilling under the influence of all that J but he is still dumbfounded by what he has learned — and, indeed, by all that he'll never learn. You might say he's spooked by it all. Significantly, the show's main character has also recently begun an intense and tumultuous relationship with Brenda, a messed up genius who he finds equally intriguing and intimidating. But most importantly, he ultimately feels uncomfortable that he, a grown man in his thirties who has lived much of his life running away from loved ones and responsibilities, could become just like his mysterious father who know one really knows.

The relationship between Nate and Brenda is the essence of the spookiness in "Spooky": while she challenges him to become so much more, he refuses to get dragged into her manipulative games (or, more accurately, he refuses yet still often gets sucked into them anyway). The two are rocked by what the other represents. While their on-again, off-again relationship doesn't work out in the end, there's no question that they've changed each other profoundly. Sadly, there's less of a give-and-take dynamic in the song itself. Normal, everyday guy has this bird who changes on a dime. She blows him off one minute, then comes right back to him the next. It's unclear if we're supposed to sympathize with him or not but it does feel like he's more than a little turned on by her flightiness.

I could go on about Six Feet Under. (I have considered doing a blog about it, believe me) What I'd prefer not to delve into is Classics IV or, indeed, much beyond how their biggest hit works in an episode of one of my favourite TV shows. While there are many remarkable aspects to the HBO dark comedy, its use of music is largely overlooked. I can praise music supervisors Gary Calamar and Thomas Golubic for selecting great songs by Radiohead or slow-core masters Spain but I'd rather give them props for choosing material that buttons up scenes regardless of whether I like them or not. Some hipsters from my generation seemed to like Death Cab for Cutie but they never did much for me. That said, the use of their song "Transatlanticism" in a season four episode is inspired and for a fleeting moment I can understand why many people got into them back at around the time of the Millennium. 

While it has a sparkling, jazzy rhythm, "Spooky" isn't nearly as sexy at it thinks it is — nor is it even all that spooky. (Billboard would have you believe otherwise, putting it at number twelve on their list of the 25 Biggest Halloween Songs of All time on the Hot 100, stating that it's a favourite of "sensual spectres", whoever they are) Still, it is rather creepy, I'll give it that. Plenty of perfectly normal people have ended up in toxic relationships but the vast majority of us have the decency not to celebrate them so openly. At least Nate and Brenda learned something from all the shit that they put each other through which is more than can be said for the loser narrating this passable yet strangely unmoving song.

Score: 5

Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich: "Zabadak!"

February 17, 1968 (1 week)

I've always been mildly irritated by the song "Iko Iko". It's an earworm but not the kind that I might occasionally welcome. Being an old number from New Orleans, it might have been taken far too seriously than it deserved by people like Dr. John. On the other hand, being a novelty song at heart, others like The Belle Stars and Cyndi Lauper might not have taken it seriously enough. On top of all that, it has always smacked of that kind of condescending children's pop song that kids aren't actually interested in. (That said, I can just about tolerate The Dixie Cups' version which strikes a balance between having fun with "Iko Iko" while also respecting the material)

"Zabadak!" is not unlike "Iko Iko", only it hasn't subsequently been played to death on the radio, hardly anyone has covered it over the past sixty years and it has become largely forgotten. It is no better a song — in fact, it may be a bit worse — but at least we aren't all fed up with it. As far as I can tell, it has never been reclaimed by a well meaning sub-Saharan African group (or, worse still, an earnest bunch of Europeans) nor has it ever been subjected to comedy music hell. Were kids into "Zabadak!" at the time? Perhaps but I'm not convinced they were the target audience. 

Before I get to why I'm not terribly impressed with "Zabadak!", let me express some admiration for Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich. It seems that they were a pretty typical pop/rock group of the era only they were quite happy to record whatever eccentric shit they'd been handed. Novelty pop has its limits but respect ought to be accorded to those who take the task seriously. Just as super serious actors are often the most suitable for comedy movies (or, similarly, unsmiling, gimmick-free professional wrestlers often appeal more to kids than cartoony "sports-entertainers"), novelty pop becomes far easier to swallow when it's being played by a real group. The silliness will reveal itself either way so why needlessly hammer the point home by presenting it as stupidly as possible?

While "Zabadak!" initally brought to mind "Iko Iko", further listening has made me think of The Beach Boys in their post-Pet Sounds doldrums. The harmonies could have come straight out of the Wilson-Love-Jardine playbook but meshed with the tribal arrangements leaves the bad taste of "Little Pad" from the uneven Smiley Smile in my mouth. Talented people messing around in the studio assuming that whatever results will be worthwhile. Yes, DDDBM&T took what they were doing seriously but they still didn't have much to work with. Had they been a self-sufficient unit then they might have developed a certain amount of quality control; instead, they had to rely on some meagre contributions from others. Just because it hasn't been covered and/or played on the radio endlessly over the years doesn't mean "Zabadak!" isn't any less half-baked than much of the novelty pop detritus we've been subjected to.

Score: 4

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

February 10, 1968 (1 week)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Score: 8

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

February 3, 1968 (1 week)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Score: 10

Small Faces: "Itchycoo Park"

January 27, 1968 (1 week)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Score: 8