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

Mashmakhan: "As the Years Go By"

August 22, 1970 (2 weeks)

With sixteen Top 40 entries to date, including four number ones, The Guess Who have been credited with ushering in a golden age of Canadian pop and rock, one that would last through much of the seventies. This blog will be looking at Gordon Lightfoot, The Bells, The Stampeders, Anne Murray, Neil Young and Edward Bear before long but not everyone can be fondly remembered or, in some cases, ridiculed for being shite. Some ended up slipping through the cracks even if their biggest hit is something of a minor masterpiece.

Quebec's Mashmakhan. They named themselves after a locally acquired brand of hash and got away with it. Though obviously big enough to have had a number one smash (which also charted internationally), they would become overshadowed by the group that was formed out of their ashes, hard rockers April Wine. They must've seemed like part of Can Rock royalty until they proved unable to follow their one big hit. Not quite one-hit wonders though they might as well have been.

The problem with progressive rock groups during this time was that their ambitions stretched far beyond what the pop singles charts had to offer. Many only bothered putting out 45s because that was what was expected of them. Singles were a mass-produced water colour on a Hallmark greeting card; albums were the canvas for all their grand plans of conquest. And when they weren't cutting LPs they were doing the next best thing: extended jams on stage to small but very appreciative audiences. (Ironically, a number of British prog rockers would go on to do very well on the RPM charts as they began to scale back in the wake of punk's rise in the second half of the decade)

It's a shame so many of them were attracted to the concept album madness of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and In the Court of the Crimson King since packing all their dynamic skills into a 7" pop song would've been good discipline. Plus, with singles going well beyond the three minute mark by this point, it wasn't as if they would've had to sacrifice a whole lot of soloing anyway. Singles were also a good and cheap starting off point: the place where bands with aspirations that far exceeded their budgets and even skills could cram some promising ideas together and see what came out it.

Considering how long it took for a domestic act to master Britain's other major subgenre of the early seventies (glam rock), it is surprising how quickly at least four Canadians managed to master progressive rock. Groups like Yes and Genesis were only getting started while Pink Floyd were still working out the kinks of shifting over from acid rock. Yet Mashmakhan took to it right away. That said, "As the Years Go By" is merely a glimpse of what they had in mind. Perhaps they were already outgrowing the pop charts.

Aided along by stellar performances in Toronto, Winnipeg and Calgary as part of that summer's notorious Transcontinental Pop Festival (which would eventually be immortalized in the wonderful documentary Festival Express), "As the Years Go By" would be a bittersweet hit just as August was wrapping up. That sort of 'goodbye summer love' smash that ought to be part of every teenager's vacation. It's that type of song that feels like it has something for everyone. You could just as easily get stoned to it as have your first kiss as it was playing. Kids might have even danced to it had the desire struck them. Whether you were hearing on the CHUM radio station or at McMahon Stadium, its status as a prog rock classic wouldn't have even entered into it. "As the Years Go By" was merely a great pop song that loads of Canadians embraced. Sometimes that's the best that can be hoped for even if you're the type of band who has far bigger fish to fry.

Score: 8

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

August 8, 1970 (2 weeks)

"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 ABBA in the era prior to their reassessment. A turning point was the release of If I Were a Carpenter in 1994. A rare tribute album from the nineties that didn't include Elton John, it featured indie and indie-adjacent stars such as Sonic Youth and Sheryl Crow doing unique but affectionate covers of some of Richard and Karen's most famous numbers.

Like a lot of tribute albums, If I Were a Carpenter 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. Babes in Toyland's "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft" sounds exactly like a grungy take on prog space rock. Cracker's "Rainy Days and Mondays" brings a welcome slacker vibe that would never have occurred to the diligent Carpenters. 

The song that sticks out the most is The Cranberries' "Close to You". The Irish quartet had only recently broken through with the yearning beauty of "Linger" and their next major hit, the less engaging "Zombie", 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 Dolores O'Riordan, she was no Karen and it seemed like The Cranberries had bitten off more than they could chew.

(In retrospect, their version of "Close to You" also stands out due to O'Riordan's untimely death as well as her dangerously rake-thin 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 The Cranberries' 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 Bachrach and David piece like "Close to You" 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 Wrecking Crew 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 Bachrach and David — 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* 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 Sonic Youth will have you believe.

Score: 4

Miguel Ríos: "A Song of Joy"

July 25, 1970 (2 weeks)

Yes, you're reading that right. "A Song of Joy" hit the number one spot on the RPM hit parade on July 25, 1970. Precisely five months earlier (or, indeed, seven months later) would've made more sense. The Canadian public hadn't really shown much interest in taking a Christian hymn to the top of the pop charts at Christmastime but somehow or other one managed to do so in the middle of the summer.

So, how did Miguel Ríos' "A Song of Joy" become a chart topper, especially at such a random time of the year? Was it helped along by a notable lull in the charts that July? Here is the RPM Top 10 from the week that Ríos reached the summit:

1. Miguel Rios: "A Song of Joy"
2. Three Dog Night: "Mama Told Me Not to Come"
3. Freda Payne: "Band of Gold"
4. The Carpenters: "Close to You"
5. Mountain: "Mississippi Queen"
6. The Temptations: "Ball of Confusion"
7. The Pipkins: "Gimme Dat Ding"
8. Five Stairsteps: "O-o-h Child"
   
9. Melanie with the Edwin Hawkins Singers: "Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)"
10. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young: "Teach Your Children"

Not terribly impressive competition on the surface. About half the acts present are in effect one-hit wonders. That said, there are some solid singles present. "Band of Gold" is groovy, "Mississippi Queen" rocks and "Mama Told Me Not to Come" just about manages to do both. "Ball of Confusion" is an appropriately confusing mess but it has its charms — and I will always wish we could return to an era in which ambitious songs like this have at least a fighting chance of making the Top 40. Yet, it's "O-o-h Child" that should've been the number one smash that I'm writing about now. (I would've given it a 9) The second worst song present is probably "Gimme Dat Ding", a British novelty hit that had no business crossing the Atlantic. It's first half is moronic fun but there's no reason to even bother sticking with it to the end. On the other hand, that's more than what can be said for "A Song of Joy", a grim, sickly outing that can't quite even make the most of its use of Beethoven's 9th.

Though either way too late or far too early for Christmas, timing was very much on Ríos' side. Spiritual pop was at its peak and this was also the beginning of the apogee of progressive rock. While no one was confusing this for something that The Moody Blues or King Crimson or Procol Harum had worked on, the use of symphonic elements inevitably rubbed off on a few of the lesser lights. But then, it isn't great spiritual music either. While the search for enlightenment and meaning that came out of the ashes of the hippie movement has a great deal to answer for — mostly a load of dangerous cults which, at best, ruined families and wiped out savings accounts — it did result in some strong pop, rock, soul, gospel and even jazz. (Say what you will about Scientology but at least it inspired the works of Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke and Edgar Winter) Rather than exploring new ideas, Ríos retreats into tired old Christianity. The fact that he's sincere in his piety doesn't help either. The running time of just short of five minutes seems to stretch out like a sermon delivered by a parson who loves the sound of his own voice. "A Song of Joy"? I don't sure don't hear any.

Oh, and I never did attempt to answer the question above: how the hell did "A Song of Joy" go all the way to number one? Well, I think there are two possibilities. The first is that Canadian youths on the whole weren't really paying attention to the music scene that summer. They were on camping trips with their parents or friends, attending summer school or summer camps or maybe they had summer jobs. Perhaps they were just hanging out and enjoying their holidays with little thought to what was popular at the moment. Seven or eight selections from the Top 10 listed above could've been memorable summertime faves — teenage boys rockin' out to "Mississippi Queen", "O-o-h Child" and "Band of Gold" could've been popular on jukeboxes all over Canada and "Close to You" would've been a great anthem for fleeting summer love — but "A Song of Joy" got the faithful out to push it over the top when the secular folk had better things to do. There's also the possibility that people are idiots. They had several good-to-great singles to opt for but they went with the worst one. Well done.

Score: 1

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

July 11, 1970 (2 weeks)

Over 400,000 people attended the Woodstock Music and Art Fair in August of 1969 but it might as well have been 400,000,000 the way some people describe it today. Not only do a suspiciously large number of individuals claim to have been there (it's as if none of them died over the past fifty-seven years other than many of the artists and most of the organizers) but mythology masking as history wishes we'd all buy into this crap too. The truth is, only a tiny fraction of Baby Boomers managed to make it to Bethel, New York that summer.

It's probably for the best most people weren't there. Many, many more got to enjoy a glimpse of it when they attended the film a year later and they got to experience the great music while being able to avoid the bad weather, the mud, the smell, the hunger, so many drug overdoses and, crucially, a handful of bad or indifferent performances from those not included in the footage. (The Incredible String Band went down badly, Ravi Shankar wasn't to everyone's taste and The Band were a bunch of surely, overrated tools)

Joni Mitchell famously decided to give Woodstock a miss. She had been interested in performing at the festival but her manager persuaded her to go to New York City instead so she could be a guest on The Dick Cavett Show. Her then-boyfriend Graham Nash played at Woodstock with the newly formed Crosby, Stills and Nash and he promptly told her all about it. She then sat down and wrote "Woodstock" in honour of the festival that she wasn't even at. It would go on to become one of her signature numbers, a major hit for both CS&N and, in the UK, Matthews Southern Comfort and a song still associated with late sixties' flower power counterculture. Mitchell's composition is a celebration of the back-to-nature spirit of the age which only manages to emphasize the idealism. You may not necessarily know she wasn't there by the lyrics but it makes sense given new age mysticism and good vibes present. Meanwhile, some of those who did show up wrote Woodstock tributes of their own but they were burdened by accuracy.

Poor old Melanie. She did a well received thirty minute set at one in the morning on the opening day yet she was left out of the movie. Still, not only did her career continue to take off but she had a breakthrough hit with "Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)", a far more realistic take on the Woodstock experience. Subsequent generations may have bought into the romance of the hippie era but the general public at the time clearly didn't mind having a much more measured view. There's a particular verse that I would like to highlight. Here are its four lines along with my own brand of analysis:

We were so close, there was no room. Yeah, no shit. It was uncomfortable. Nearly half-a-million people crammed into a farm will do that. Sure, that Max Yasgur guy was a successful dairy farmer or something but his property could've only been so big. Yet, everyone being packed in so tight was in keeping with the times so you all should've just sucked it up, right?

We bled inside each other's wounds. Gross. (On the other hand, I initially misheard Melanie and thought she's used a word other than 'wounds' which would've been even more disgusting) Charitably, she could have been singing about how members of her generation had these wounds that had been caused by the Kennedy assassination and the Bomb and 'Nam and all that shit and that everyone in attendance was giving each other emotional blood transfusions or something along those lines but she could've done with more elegant phrasing had that been her intention.

We all caught the same disease. Yeah, leftism, am I right? I jest but I can imagine a few sad, crew-cut sporting Nixon fans saying something along those lines. It would be interesting to find out if there were any long term health problems that affected attendees as Melanie seems to be suggesting. In any event, I think Mel has hammered the point home sufficiently by now. (There is a longer version of "Lay Down" out there but I'd rather not risk hearing about people sharing each other's backwash or stepping on discarded ban-aids or other stomach-turning activities)

And we sang the songs of peace. Seeing as how crowded and teeming with disease and rain-soaked it was, it's a wonder there weren't riots like at Woodstock '99. A credit to everyone that peace and love was a constant throughout the weekend's festivities — and hopefully it carried over in their everyday lives, even those who were on the way to becoming Yuppies.

Joining Melanie on "Lay Down" are the Edwin Hawkins Singers. While the best thing about this single, their presence seems to take you out of being at Woodstock. Like Joni, the gospel act best known for "Oh Happy Day" weren't there, though they would appear earlier that the summer at the so-called 'Black Woodstock' held in Harlem (and not to be confused with the music festival that was supposed to run concurrently with the famous Muhammad Ali-George Foreman Rumble in the Jungle fight in the former Zaire). A gospel act at the hippie love fest might've been a good idea but having them on this song doesn't right a wrong. It even manages to trivialize the overt realism of Melanie's lyrics a little.

The other thing wrong with Hawkins and his group of female singers is that they do not do Melanie any favours. I must say I'd been expecting her to sound like a prototype of those quirky female folk singers from the Lilith Fair era — a sort of Manic Pixie Dream Girl with an acoustic guitar — but her voice was far too gravelly. She did all right for herself anyway with her Woodstock set being more than respectable. Nevertheless, she's way out of her depth next to a choir full of commanding vocalists. If she had been hoping that they might build her up then I hope she wasn't too disappointed. Last time I credited Rare Earth for being "pioneers in the 'nondescript white band with a Motown fixation' game". As if not to be outdone, Melanie Safka's first of two RPM number ones place her at the forefront in the 'white girl singers who think they can play with the gospel vets' stakes.

"Lay Down" isn't a great song but it remains a fascinating period piece from a time that has been mythologized to death. This first hand account may not feed into the public's dream of peace and love and music but it ought to be an antidote to much of the accompanying bullshit. Perhaps it would be better remembered had Melanie been as talented a songwriter as Joni Mitchell. Alas, we all can't be Joni, can we?

Score: 5