The Beatles: "Let It Be"

April 11, 1970 (3 weeks)

"Are we supposed to giggle during the solo?"

Not everything that great wit John Lennon uttered made sense or was especially funny. Most of the time he nailed it but everyone whiffs a few. His little comment to Paul McCartney just prior to yet another take of "Let It Be" is one of them. His partner even replied with a quick "yeah" but nothing else. While often a no nonsense pro in the studio, Macca was not above cracking up and/or trading barbs with his old friend Lennon. But he clearly didn't find the line about having to "giggle" to be particularly funny — and neither do I.

Honestly, I don't even know what the hell John was talking about in this exchange. Some have said it was meant as a jab about the religious sanctimony of the song "Let It Be" being not unlike laughing in church but then why didn't ask about them NOT being allowed to giggle during the solo? Wouldn't that have made more sense? Ian MacDonald described Lennon's comment as "cruel" but I don't find it cutting enough to take it that seriously. (Mind you, I am the one writing about it at the moment so I guess I must take it somewhat seriously; I'll be getting to why soon, I promise!) It's just lame.

John Lennon in 1969: he found the time to hang out in hotel rooms with his new wife, meet with Prime Ministers and great thinkers of the age, go toe-to-toe with obnoxious cartoonists, promote peace, crash his car in the Scottish Highlands and raid Ronnie Hawkins' fridge for cold cuts but his musical contributions were remarkably minuscule, especially when you consider the prolific songwriting run he went on just a year earlier. While he was never above critiquing the work of his Fab Four co-leader, he seemed unable or unwilling to contribute to any of it. (His complaint about all the "junk" on the second side of Abbey Road might be one to take seriously but for the fact that he was responsible for much of that junk) The promo for "Let It Be" shows McCartney giving an impassioned performance, with a stern Ringo Starr providing reliable rhythm and George Harrison looking very committed as he gives solid backing vocals and a strong guitar solo. (Yeah, like I'm going to giggle at a George solo, John!) Guest star Billy Preston puts his gospel organ background to good use. Meanwhile, Lennon sits on the floor, plucking a superfluous guitar and is barely able to bring his lips close to the mic. Yoko Ono sits next to him looking profoundly uninterested but she's probably just feeding off of his boredom.

But even when he was in the wrong, Lennon could still have a point. The old curmudgeon would frequently knock much of McCartney's work in the seventies but his derision typically boiled down to expecting more from Macca — and I think this lies at the heart of why Lennon never cared for "Let It Be". Being comforted by his dearly missed mother in a dream was something close to McCartney's heart but perhaps it meant too much to him. While "Hey Jude" was worked on and altered at length until The Beatles finally got together to record it, "Let It Be" strikes me as very much finished almost as soon as it had begun. Three verses of vague wisdom and lots and lots of chorus. Of course, there's an upside in keeping things simple but not when it feels like it's covering up for a lack of ideas.

(Its message also rubs me the wrong way, particularly in the context of the 1987 Ferry Aid charity single released following the Zeebrugge Disaster in which nearly two hundred people lost their lives when the MS Herald of Free Enterprise capsized off the coast of Belgium. The right wing newspaper The Sun had promoted discounts on the vessel and their subsequent push to have many of the finest pop stars of the age was a clear PR campaign. In light of the negligence involved in the disaster, it feels a bit creepy to be singing of being resigned to one's fate. No, I'd rather not just let it be, thank you very much. How about we look into the role government deregulation played in the ship's sinking instead?)

All that said, "Let It Be" isn't a total bust. McCartney sounds as good as ever and, as I already mentioned, everyone else save for Lennon is in fine form. (It's a reminder that Macca and Harrison were the two Fabs who mattered most in '69 and I say that as a big Lennon guy) While it may feel like he's hammering home the "say goodbye to The Beatles" sentiment, it's hard not to feel touched by it. I wouldn't sing along with it at a McCartney concert (I can't even remember if he played it when I saw him in Seoul back in 2015 though I'm sure he did) and I have zero interest in ever hearing covered again but "Let It Be" is able to sneak up on me from time to time — and I've still managed to resist the urge to giggle during the solo.

Score: 6

~~~~~

Hey! Where's...

He may have been comparatively inactive on the musical front in '69 but John Lennon got the seventies off to a hot start with his first solo triumph "Instant Karma! (We All Shine On)". Whack job producer Phil Spector may have been messing up remixes for The Beatles but at least he did his job properly here. The fantastic earworm chorus is only improved by Lennon's closeness to the mic as you can practical hear the saliva make contact. Ringo is as steady as ever too. Stuck first behind Simon and Garfunkel and then the Fabs themselves, "Instant Karma!" sat at number two for over a month. A pity since it would've been a sure fire 10 had it managed to climb to that elusive top spot. Lennon and Yoko Ono had made at least three visits to Canada the previous year but Montreal and Toronto weren't on their travel itineraries in 1970, especially after their plans for a music festival to rival Woodstock were permanently shelved. If only he'd been around that spring, the promo might have put it over the top.

Simon and Garfunkel: "Bridge Over Troubled Water"

March 14, 1970 (4 weeks)

He sits there in the shadows, vulnerable, a man with little in the way of hope. Being alone on the cover of their latest single must have symbolized the fraying relationship between cover star Paul Simon and his longtime partner Art Garfunkel. As the angelic-voiced half of the duo hogged the limelight on "Bridge Over Troubled Water", the song's composer could only look on glumly. While Garfunkel got all the attention, the man who did the heavy lifting was practically being forgotten in real time.

(In reality, the photo on the single's flip side is one of Garfunkel all by himself. Rather than looking forlorn, however, he is all business, ready to sing into a mic as his headphones try in vain to mat his trademark afro. Is Simon staring in disbelief at his mate's professionalism?)

Nothing of the sort happened but what difference does that make when you're a highly skilled songwriter who happens to be incredibly thin-skinned? I would say "if only he could see into a future of gold records and critical acclaim held up next to Garfunkel's more short lived success followed by years of being the butt end of jokes" but it seems Simon still feels this way. All his one time friend did was sing a note perfect rendition of what would become their most famous song and the other one (who, lest we forget, has made a fortune in royalties ever since) remains sore over it. Some people, eh?

It's a funny old thing about these sorts of uplifting, secular hymns and how much tension came as the result of them. Or maybe I'm looking at them the wrong way: the tension already existed and it brought about songs like "Bride Over Troubled Water". (Yeah, that makes more sense) And with lines like "And friends just can't be found" it would seem a safe bet that troubles between Simon and Garfunkel had been simmering for a while.

Given what we know now, it seems easy to take Simon's side in this whole thing. Even still, say what you will about Garfunkel's silly hair and his mediocre solo career and his apparent inability to write a song of his own (even if he never claimed to be interested in doing so) but he's the one who makes "Bridge Over Troubled Water". Obviously Simon did his part and then some but the man simply wasn't up to taking the lead himself. (Garfunkel is said to have preferred what his partner did on an early demo but I can't imagine anyone agreeing with this assessment since it sounds like a rough cut of promising song in need of the right vocalist)

Luckily, the right vocalist was doubtless standing just a few feet away from a (probably) resentful Simon. While many other standards inevitably become dwarfed by their original and/or definitive rendition, "Bridge Over Troubled Water" has been covered very successfully by a number of accomplished singers. Aretha Franklin's version is stunning, Johnny Cash's is surprisingly delicate. Yet none of them come even close to the way Garfunkel takes the listener on a masterclass ride of vocal skills. He's practically whispering in its earliest stages and you're left turning up the volume only to realize that it's still a strain to hear him. "When you're weary, feeling small": and he sure as hell sounds like it. Even as its near five minutes of running time churns along, the temptation to just belt it out was avoided. It's as if in promising to be that bridge, he was also communicating a need for some support of his own.

Barring the odd reunion, Simon and Garfunkel went out on the highest of high notes. Their final studio album of the same name is probably their most well-rounded in terms of both song quality and sequencing. No fewer than four of its eleven tracks made the charts with all of them — in addition to "Bridge Over Troubled Water", they also put out "The Boxer", "Cecilia" and "El Condor Pasa (If I Could)" — hitting the Top 5 of the RPM hit parade. (Four may seem like a modest number compared to Michael Jackson's obnoxious practice of issuing seven or eight per album but it was basically without precedence back in 1970) And this was the biggest hit they'd ever have. One wrote simple yet poignant verses and melody while the other set about proving that his delivery was the best in the business. Everyone did their part but not everyone was satisfied but at least virtually everyone else ended up enjoying it.

Score: 9

The Guess Who: "No Time"

February 28, 1970 (2 weeks)

"The Guess Who were very much still a work in progress".

So concluded my review of their previous chart topper, the forgettable "Laughing" from September, 1969. As if in full knowledge of this, The Guess Who took the opening track from Canned Wheat — which is probably their finest album — and kept at it. The LP version opens with a needless bit of instrumental doodling which they wisely excised. In addition, they cut it down to a more manageable three minutes and forty-five seconds. Finally, they decided to fully lean into the influence of fellow Canadian Neil Young and his longtime frienemy Stephen Stills.

Such is the debt owed to the two former members of Buffalo Springfield that you might even think they had been liberally cribbing from the then hugely popular quartet of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young as well. And while it's almost certain that Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman were familiar with the popular '69 album Crosby, Stills and Nash, the pair seemed much more interested in mixing those patented crystal clear folk rock harmonies (likely the preserve of the vocally rich Cummings) with the harder rock edge favoured by the Stills-Young faction (Bachman being no stranger to shredding himself). In any case, Young had only just become a member of CS&N, with the newly rechristened quartet's strength-to-strength album Déjà Vu still a couple weeks away from release.

"No Time" wasn't simply remade for the singles charts but it then ended up appearing on American Woman, the Guess Who's most popular album. Compared to the consistency of Canned Wheat it falls a bit short. Nevertheless, its high spots (the title track — which, spoilers, we're just about to get to — "No Sugar Tonight", "No Time" itself) are some of their greatest and most memorable moments. If the peak of their creativity had occurred a year earlier, now they appeared to be at the peak of their powers.

(Redoing older songs for future albums and/or singles releases wasn't especially new for The Guess Who. Minor 1968 singles "Of a Pin Dropping" and "When Friends Fall Out" would receive second chances on Canned Wheat and American Woman, the latter of which would become an all too on-the-nose addition to the album that marked the group's most lasting schism)

The song's Wikipedia entry notes that "No Time" operates as a "reverse Dear John Letter" with a man explaining to his girl why they're relationship is coming to an end. For the most part this tracks but there is one bit that makes me wonder if something more relevant to the world is involved as well. In the midst of listing of some of the many things he has "no time" for — "a gentle rain", "my watch and chain", "revolving doors" — he suddenly reveals that there is also no time for "the killing floor". While it is always possible that he's referring to toiling in a slaughterhouse, I have to wonder if this line has more to do with Vietnam and protest movements going on around the world. Perhaps he's a Yippie who is transitioning into a Yuppie, a Jerry Rubin-type figure who can no longer prioritize world peace because he has a living to make. "Seasons change and so do I": we may not think that our young, idealistic selves will change over time but it typically happens whether we want it to or not.

The timing couldn't have been more appropriate since it marked the end of Cummings-Bachman relationship. The pair had no time left for each other but fortunately they were able to squeeze out one more album and one more huge hit before this particular iteration of The Guess Who crumbled. As proud Canadians they were happy to stand together against a bully from down south whatever the differences between them.

Score: 9

Eddie Holman: "Hey There Lonely Girl"

February 21, 1970 (1 weeks)

Like "Venus", "Hey There Lonely Girl" would one day be covered by a British trio under the watchful gaze of the hugely successful eighties' songwriting/production team of Stock Aitken Waterman. There are, however, two major differences between them. The first is that SAW failed to add anything of value onto their remake with their version being more or less a carbon copy. The second is that while Bananarama were masters of having a good time and putting it on their records, Big Fun were an especially poor boy band whose brief presence on the UK charts marked the coming end times for the famed svengalis who provided them with largely undeserved hits.

Big Fun's "Lonely Girl" is appalling. Members Phil Creswick, Mark Gillespie and the late Jason John hadn't fully utilized their vocal chords up until this point as they had been more accustomed to bleating out workmanlike lines on supposedly uplifting pop songs like their cover of The Jacksons' "Blame It on the Boogie" and SAW original "Can't Shake the Feeling". These weren't all that good themselves but at least the boys sound confident. But their grand artistic statement of "Lonely Girl" only exposes them for the pop frauds they always were.

Turns out, "Hey There Lonely Girl" is so bad that it even manages to undermine Eddie Holman's more celebrated hit from 1970. For sure, three English lads doing piss poor falsettos can't compare with a genuine soul singer but let's face it, Holman was hardly Curtis Mayfield, was he? I laugh at Big Fun only to realize that I can't take this one seriously either. Male R&B vocalists could take themselves too seriously at times (something we'll be seeing a lot of when we finally get to the nineties but at least this tendency will be relieved at times their more spirited female counterparts) and I think Holman is guilty in this regard. Plus, there's a fine line between reaching out to a young woman and preying upon her — something that becomes clear when comparing the Brian Wilson-sung version of "I'm Waiting for the Day" on The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds and the outtake with Mike Love on lead — and this one pleads just a little too much for me to believe that his intentions were completely virtuous.

(Incidentally, my point about over-earnest R&B singers is also on full display on B side "It's All in the Game", which had previously topped the Canadian charts by both Tommy Edwards and Cliff Richard. Though I do prefer Holman's more orthodox vocal to what he did on "Lonely Girl", it is similarly over-serious though, I suppose, adding humour and/or irony to a song such as this would be a nigh on impossible task even to a Steely Dan-Pet Shop Boys supergroup)

Still, I can get through a good chunk of Holman's version without the overwhelming desire to turn it the hell off. That is until just prior to the two minute mark when my bette noire enters the picture. It has been good while since I've had to deal with one of those horribly dated chorus parts. I figured they had been consigned to 1958 when they were already passed their expiry date but some genius involved decided that what "Lonely Girl" needed was an unwelcome bit of white-bred singing that the sixties had been mercifully free of.

If there is a version to go for, it's "Hey There Lonely Boy" (italics  are my own) by Ruby and the Romantics from back in 1963. It isn't spectacular either but at least singer Ruby Nash gets the job done without the need to overdo it. A fine recording that others may have heard and thought "I can improve on this shit!" only for them to go out and fail miserably at doing so. Not everyone can handle a cover version the way Bananarama did with "Venus"; in fact, Eddie Holman and, especially, Big Fun are much more the rule that proves the exception. 

Score: 3

Tom Jones: "Without Love (There Is Nothing)"

February 14, 1970 (1 week)

1958 — The Silhouettes: "Get a Job"

1959 — Richie Valens: "Donna" / "La Bamba"

1960 — Jim Reeves: "He'll Have to Go"

1961 — Andy Stewart: "A Scottish Soldier"

1962 — Charlie Drake: "My Boomerang Won't Come Back"

1963 — Paul and Paula: "Hey Paula"

1964 — The Beatles: "I Want to Hold Your Hand" / "I Saw Her Standing There"

1965 — Jay and the Americans: "Let's Lock the Door (and Throw Away the Key)"

1966 — Petula Clark: "My Love"

1967 — The Seekers: "Georgy Girl"

1968 — The Foundations: "Baby, Now That I've Found You"

1969 — The Doors: "Touch Me"

Forget the Christmas number one, let's talk about the St. Valentine's Day chart toppers instead! The above were at the top of either the CHUM or RPM hit parades on February 14th of their respective years and, for the most part, they totally fit. Songs of Yuletide cheer and/or giving to one's fellow man are seldom, if ever, represented in the Xmas number ones but syrupy love ballads in the middle of February? Oh, hell yeah! (And, yes, I am aware that the public are suckers for love songs regardless of the time of year) And it's not such a bad list, is it? That early sixties' run of duds really stands out but the arrival of The Beatles seemed to up the quality control with five very credible Valentine's number ones on the bounce to close out the decade.

Sadly, the streak ends there. Some may think it "ironic" that the ladies man to end of ladies men would be responsible for such an abominable love song on such a romantic day but I feel it tracks. Tom Jones certainly knows how to (a) get women into bed and (b) get people to buy his crummy recordings (and, to be sure, there's doubtless plenty of intersection in that particular Venn diagram) but he's always been better at selling himself than selling his material.

Jones having some fun with "What's New Pussycat?" or "It's Not Unusual" is one thing but for him to tackle gospel is simply in bad taste. It isn't so much that he is out of his depth as a vocalist and more that he didn't have a grounding in American spiritual music to successfully pull it of. It could be what we now call cultural appropriation but I'm leaning towards thinking of it as religious appropriation instead. And poor religious appropriation at that. Johnny Mathis' "When a Child Is Born" is bad enough but when The Tiger (as his female fans call him; I wonder where they got that from?) does so it's a whole other level of bad.

"Without Love (There Is Nothing)" set the tone for many a dreadful seventies' love song. (Indeed, it is one of many dire Valentine's number ones to come) While the singer-songwriters had a great deal to answer for in this regard, the worst offenders were the cabaret acts who were either holding on or in revival mode during the decade ahead. Paul Anka, Neil Sedaka, Tom Jones: none were especially old by 1970 but all seemed stuck in the past while the public seemed all too happy to oblige them. Perhaps with The Beatles being done and dusted, everyone was open to the same crooners who the Fab Four had previously helped do away with. The middle-of-the-road was here and few seemed interested in even shifting slightly to the left or right, let alone taking a sharp turn.

Score: 1

Shocking Blue: "Venus"

January 31, 1970 (2 weeks)

It is no doubt impossible to hear Shocking Blue's "Venus" the same way anymore. While the vocal trio who popularized it even more in the eighties were hardly the greatest singers in their own right, the icy yet awkward singing from Mariska Veres leaves a great deal to be desired. The arrangement is more or less the same only the original lacks the polish and punch of what Stock Aitken and Waterman would one day do with it. 1970's "Venus" sounds like a dry run for what was to come sixteen years later.

Spoiler Alert: Banarama's famed cover version of "Venus" peaked at number four in Canada so it will not be reviewed in this space. (Actually it did top the retail chart conducted by The Record but this blog plans to stick to the RPM hit parade for as long as possible) Nevertheless, its shadow is considerable enough that it has made all future covers irrelevant and it even reduces its otherwise solid source material to the status of a glorified demo. While seldom mentioned in the category of 'Covers That Surpass the Originals', Bananarama's "Venus" is a giant step forward from what Shocking Blue managed to do with it.

Dutch rock group Shocking Blue had been at the forefront of the Nederbeat scene of the sixties. While the French yé-yé groups tended towards twee and/or baroque pop, a relatively harder edge was favoured by bands from The Netherlands. If they weren't quite in the same league as the likes of The Velvet Underground or The Doors or anyone in the emerging heavy metal scene, there was a dark heart to their work. It's easy to imagine Veres using Nico as a role model even if she clearly struggled to match the detached coldness of tracks like "Femme Fatale" or "Chelsea Girl". Yet, Shocking Blue borrowed from all over the place. The rhythm guitar playing comes straight out of the Motown school, the organ sounds like a novice trying to copy Billy Preston and the tune of "Venus" happened to be cribbed from The Big 3's "The Banjo Song". If nothing else, songwriter and Blue guitarist Robbie van Leeuwen had the good sense to steal from all over the place, an approach that generally allows for easier and less litigious musical theft.

So, perhaps we shouldn't feel too bad that this cobbled together fluke international smash would one day become overshadowed by Bananarama's zestier interpretation. The "Narns" (as Smash Hits would nickname them) and the SAW production team added a great deal but perhaps the smartest thing they did with "Venus" was that they had fun with it. That's not to say there aren't elements to enjoy and admire in Shocking Blue's original only that they're also present and correct in the Narn's cover with added frills to boot. It's hard to say whether it sounded like it at the time or not but now it sounds like it needs a stronger dance beat, better singers, a more sparkly production and the sense that it's about having a laugh rather than half-baked kinky sex stuff, cool as that shit no doubt is.

Score: 6 (with an unofficial score of 9 to Bananarama's remake; incidentally had any of "Cruel Summer", "Robert de Niro's Waiting..." or "Love in the First Degree" made it to number one in Canada then they would've had a sure fire 10...alas)

The Archies: "Jingle Jangle"

January 24, 1970 (1 week)

Growing up in Canada in the late eighties and early nineties, there was one high school band that we all aspired to be like: The Zit Remedy. Made up of Toronto youths Joey P. Jeremiah, Archie "Snake" Simpson and Derek "Wheels" Wheeler, they had ambition to spare that almost made up for their lack of talent. They were a working pop act for at least half a decade and yet they had just the one song, the immortal "Everybody Wants Something". Yet, The Zits (as they would eventually rename themselves) made the most of the status as Degrassi Jr. High and Degrassi High's only rock and roll group. The fact that they sucked the big one didn't matter in the least.

Turns out, however, that it did kind of matter. Schoolboy and schoolgirl bands are supposed to be dreadful. Degrassi's next group somehow bucked this trend by sounding horribly professional. Yeah, Downtown Sasquatch happened to be a wonderful name for a hopeless, go nowhere band but this was squandered by the fact that they sounded like a moderately successful Canadian alt-funk group of the early 2000s like Wide Mouth Mason or, uh, those other moderately successful Canadian alt-funk groups of the era. In stark contrast to The Zits, if I didn't know better, I could've sworn that lead Sasquatch Craig Manning was lip-synching along to one of those deep-voiced vocalists of the age. In addition to the fact that their lead guitarist looked suspiciously like Drake, they were far too good and not the least bit convincing to be a teenage rock band.

Which brings us to The Archies. As a quintet of students at Riverdale High, they had homework to do, malts at Pop Tate's Chok'lit Shoppe to be consumed, detentions under the watchful eyes of either Miss Grundy or Mr Weatherbee to be served, come-from-behind victories in football over hated rivals Central High to be played, burgers to be scoffed and dates in various combinations to be kept. What they didn't seem to have much time for was rehearsals and jam sessions. Like any good high school band, perhaps they'd meet up every fortnight or so to work on that same sad little number they'd been toiling on but to little in the way of results. Yet, you'd never know it since their discography is loaded with professionally crafted pop.

When music geeks get all snooty about "manufactured bands" they tend to have this noble if misguided attachment to authenticity. Hey, we've all been there so I shouldn't be too critical. My thing has always been more about sounding authentic rather than actually being authentic. I know that actors aren't expected to live the lives of the characters they play — even if some of them do — so why should I expect singers and groups to be that way when it comes to the music they perform? Just make it seem believable and that's good enough for me. This is where The Archies come undone, even when we're dealing with one of their better efforts like "Jingle Jangle". It's inauthentic and isn't even trying to be otherwise.

First, Betty Cooper is on vocals. Nice, sweet Betty. I imagine her sounding a bit like Debbie Gibson or maybe at best Belinda Carlisle. I don't buy her hitting some out-of-the-way notes or purring like a sex kitten. Hell, I don't even expect that out of Veronica Lodge. Singer Toni Wine does a great job and that's the problem: she simply doesn't sound like Betty. Worse, though, is the Sly Stone impersonator (those deep-throated "come on's" near the end) who I guess is meant to be either Archie Andrews, Jughead Jones or Reggie Mantle though your guess is as good as mine. Does this matter? Yes, it sure as shit does if I'm supposed to be locked into the kayfabe world of comic book characters in a high school band. It's bad enough they don't suck ass but for there to be zero effort at capturing the Riverdale teens is unforgivable.

On the other hand, the one thing to be said for not sucking is that at least you don't suck. "Jingle Jangle" is a good song, it's catchy and lots of fun as soon as you crack open the tin. Had it been handed off to a mildly creepy family singing group it would have been more convincing and a shoo in for at least another point added on to the score below. Unfair, I know, but that's the price you pay for not pretending to be authentic. I don't ask for much, you know.

Score: 5

B.J. Thomas: "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head"

January 3, 1970 (3 weeks)

I've never seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. You may be surprised to hear this but you really shouldn't be. While it feels as if I've seen a lot of movies in my life, I know full well that there are lot more that I've never seen — and, indeed, will never see. And don't take this as me steering clear of pictures that predate my time: there are many, many movies from the eighties, nineties and well into the millennium that I am similarly ignorant of.

For the purposes of this review it really doesn't matter. In spite of the comments on YouTube you'll sometimes come across ("such and such a movie — one I've almost certainly never heard of — brought me here"), pop songs ought to be able to transcend films. The fact that everyone from the director and producers of Butch Cassidy all the way down to co-star Robert Redford thought that "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" had little to do with the film's subject matter is actually a point in its favour. While "Raindrops" was a hit single that happened to have also been in a memorable movie, it could have just as easily thrived on its own, as, indeed, it does to this day.

Sadly, this is about as far as I can go with the "Raindrops" praise. After all those poptimist years of praise for the Bachrach and David catalog, I can confidently say that I don't like them — or, at best, I am highly disdainful of at least one of them. Sure, the former's melodies remain difficult to beat but the latter's moronic lyrics inevitably drag them down. While Lester Bangs (and others) rightfully went after Bernie Taupin for his limited skills as a wordsmith, little if anything is said about old Hal David. Bryan bloody Adams put more care into his lyrics than his nibs here. 

I suppose it's to B.J. Thomas' credit as a vocalist that all this nonsense verse gets swept under the rug — with a big assist to Bachrach along with guesting Wrecking Crew member Chuck Findley on trumpet (or flugelhorn) in what is the song's undoubted highlight. In fact, maybe I should take back what I said above about not having much praise for the maiden RPM number one of the seventies. But no, I won't be doing that. In spite of having some redeeming characteristics, it nevertheless remains stuck in that finger trap of supposedly uplifting songs that somehow only manage to depress me more. Sure, I'll do my best to dial back on the complaining (ha!) but only when "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" isn't playing; when it happens to be on, all bets are off.

Score: 4

1969: We Call It a Trap

 6 — Young-Holt Unlimited: "Soulful Strut"

 6 — Bee Gees: "I Started a Joke"

 5 — Tommy James and the Shondells: "Crimson and Clover"

 9 — The Doors: "Touch Me"

 3 — Brooklyn Bridge: "Worst That Could Happen"

 6 — The Foundations: "Build Me Up Buttercup"

 8 — The Turtles: "You Showed Me"

 2 — Jay and the Americans: "This Magic Moment"

 2 — 1910 Fruitgum Company: "Indian Giver"

 4 — Tommy Roe: "Dizzy" 

 8 — The Zombies: "Time of the Season"

 4 — The 5th Dimension: "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In"

 7 — Blood, Sweat and Tears: "You've Made Me So Very Happy"

 8 — The Cowsills: "Hair"

 7 — The Beatles: "Get Back"

 3 — Oliver: "Good Morning Starshine"

 7 — Blood, Sweat and Tears: "Spinning Wheel"

 4 — Tommy James and the Shondells: "Crystal Blue Persuasion"

 4 — Zager and Evans: "In the Year 2525"

 8 — Andy Kim: "Baby, I Love You"

 7 — Motherlode: "When I Die"

 5 — The Guess Who: "Laughing"

 3 — The Archies: "Sugar, Sugar"

 1 — Oliver: "Jean"

 7 — Nilsson: "Everybody's Talkin'"

10 — Elvis Presley: "Suspicious Minds"

 6 — The Cuff Links: "Tracy"

 9 — The Beatles: "Something"

 8 — Blood, Sweat and Tears: "And When I Die"

 4 — Peter, Paul and Mary: "Leaving on a Jet Plane"

Average Score: 5.70

1969: The Year Canada Took Over!

Well, let's not go nuts here. The RPM hit parade was still being dominated by American and British acts, a trend that wasn't about to change anytime soon. Still, Canadians did unusually well at the top of their domestic singles chart in '69 even if it mainly established that they were a coming force. Still, with three number ones on the bounce plus five more with some kind of Canadian presence (The Archies' "Sugar, Sugar" had been co-written and sung by Andy Kim, Toronto native David Clayton-Thomas was leading Blood, Sweat and Tears to what was by far their best year and longtime resident of Calgary Billy Cowsill leading his family band to their second RPM chart topper; while the latter is an admittedly spurious connection, I think he just about qualifies, especially if longtime residents and/or citizens of the United States like Paul Anka can be counted as "Canadian"), this represents a considerable upswing from years past.

As always, '69 was all over the place in terms of quality. On the negative side, there was an awful lot of bubblegum and the Hair craze sure left a lot to be desired. That said, The Cowsills' spirited version of the title track from the hit musical was one of the pleasant surprises of this year. So, too, was Andy Kim's rock solid version of "Baby, I Love You" which I wasn't expecting much from. On the other hand, there's "Sugar, Sugar" which my fellow number ones bloggers all seem fond of and which you tend to hear mostly praise for in general in these poptimist times. I respectfully disagree and even think I could've gone a bit lower in my grade for The Archies. (But not to worry, they're coming up again very soon which will give me another opportunity to give them a good slating)

So, bring on the seventies! Looking ahead to the decade in general, there's a heady mix of earnest singer-songwriters, faded pop stars looking to keep the party going by caving to the disco trend and a handful of dreaded novelty songs. And lots of Canadians on the horizon to boot! There may even be a smattering of classics along the way. As for 1970 in particular, it doesn't look up to much. Not dreadful for the most part but loaded with familiar and pleasant — if ultimately underwhelming — throwbacks to an age of grubby student protesters morphing into sharply dressed bankers. While '71 is set to be a banner year, the twelve month period prior to it is rather more like '69: good but not great. But then every year is like that, isn't it?

Peter, Paul and Mary: "Leaving on a Jet Plane"

December 27, 1969 (1 week)

"Leaving on a Jet Plane" was the final RPM number one of the sixties. Carrying over, it also happened to be the first Canadian chart topper of the seventies, albeit for only a couple days before giving way. It is both an apt way to close the curtain on one decade and usher in the next while also being totally out of place.

Let's begin by looking at how much they didn't fit in. I mean, the sleeve alone tells you all you need to know. Peter, Paul and Mary look as if they belonged in the coffeehouse folk scene of 1959 and not a part of the Woodstock generation. They were all in their early thirties which makes them stick out even further. More to the point, their style of cheery, characterless harmonies put them firmly as Kingston Trio-type folk, the sort act that had at least as much in common with the Four Freshmen as they did with Pete Seeger. By the time the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez emerged as spokespeople of their generation, this sort of crap scarcely seemed like folk music at all.

On the other hand, "Leaving on a Jet Plane" was written by a young (well, he was younger than Peter Yarrow, Paul Stookey and Mary Travers at any rate) songwriter named John Denver, who had so far not broken through as a solo artist. It had appeared on a demo recording called John Denver Sings back in 1966 but he wouldn't put out a proper solo album until three years later. It was only through his connections that Peter, Paul and Mary decided to give "Jet Plane" a go. The single ended up getting to number one on Billboard's Hot 100 which no doubt opened a lot of doors for its composer.

This is why "Jet Plane" was such an appropriate single to ring in the seventies. While far from one of the more glamourous individuals in this scene, Denver was an emerging singer-songwriter just as the singer-songwriters were enjoying a boom period. We will see several of them over the course of the next several months as we traverse the early part of the decade. If the protest singers of the mid-sixties couldn't quite sweep dweebs like Peter, Paul and Mary away, then the Laurel Canyon folkies would prevail.

And rightfully so. While Denver's melodramatic singing isn't for everyone, at least his various recordings of "Jet Plane" have some shine to them. (Chantal Kreviazuk's version from the horrible motion picture Armaggedon is also far preferable to PP&M's) It's a passable song to begin with but this sucks the life out of it. While the lyrics about a guy about to catch a flight leaving his best girl behind do not relate to the conflict, there was this thought that "Jet Plane" could've been about Vietnam. I'm not so sure Peter, Paul and Mary sing it that way but at least it ensured that a very bland song would be talked about.

Which reminds me, there's another thing about "Jet Plane" that anticipates the seventies: people caught up in their own little worlds while turning their backs on shit that matters. As we'll likely see, Denver probably didn't have much to say about the issues of the time anyway. As they say, it's best to write what you know and the hippies-turned-yuppies certainly knew plenty about themselves. With that out of the way, let's close out the sixties!

Score: 4

Blood, Sweat and Tears: "And When I Die"

December 13, 1969 (2 weeks)

On April 8, 1997 the following people who are notable enough to have Wikipedia pages were born: Korean singer Kim Woo-jin, Australian singer Saygrace, American football player Roquan Smith, Belgian footballer Arno Verschueren and English footballer Keira Walsh. I hadn't heard of any of these people before looking up births on this date but, hey, they're all infinitely more well known than I am and probably have more money than I'll ever see. Naturally, they were far from the only babies who debuted that day. There were probably between 350,000 to 400,000 births around the world on that particular Tuesday. I hope they're all living their best lives even if, statistically speaking, a handful of them are no longer with us, not unlike Laura Nyro who passed away on that very same day.

Like John Lennon with "In My Life" and John Prine with "Hello in There", it is remarkable that Nyro wrote "And When I Die" at such a tender age. Quite a bit younger, in fact, than Lennon and Prince who were twenty-four and twenty-two respectively. Nyro was just seventeen when she wrote the song that anticipated her death by over three decades. Barring a serious health condition and/or loss of a family member or close friend, it's hard to imagine why she'd been considering the subject at all. (I had wondered if this was around the time she lost her mother to ovarian cancer — which would later fell Nyro herself; the two were both forty-nine at the time — but that didn't occur until the mid-seventies when the singer-songwriter's prime had already been and gone) Being so young, it is amazing how clear-headed her take on death is: a child will be born to take her spot, she's not in fear of the end and she's not counting on an afterlife awaiting her ("I can swear there ain't no heaven and pray there ain't no hell").

Nyro was entering a period of remarkable creative growth, especially for someone of her age. "And When I Die" appeared on her 1967 debut album More Than a New Discovery (which was later changed to The First Songs, which makes it seem like a set of rough home demos rather than the first great work by a supremely talented individual). A year later she followed it with the brilliant Eli and the Thirteenth Confession. From that point, however, her work took a darker turn. While still outstanding, New York Tendaberry is filled with dense, piano-led torch songs, which would continue on 1970's Christmas and the Beads of Sweat. Had "And When I Die" been composed in, say, '69 it may well have been one of her darker numbers. Yet, it came while she was in her late teens and capable of dashing off such spirited, gospel-infused triumphs as "Wedding Bell Blues", "Stoney End", "Sweet Blindness", "Eli's Coming" and "Stoned Soul Picnic", all of which were hits for other artists. (While songs such as "Save the Country" and "Time and Love" from Tendaberry and "When I Was a Freeport and You Were the Main Drag" from Christmas were similarly bouncy, they had become less commonplace) While a more mature Nyro writing about her eventual death would almost certainly have still resulted in something superlative, it likely wouldn't have been as buoyant — and, as such, wouldn't have been as big a hit.

In a vacuum you might be blown away by Blood, Sweat and Tears' third and final Canadian number one. If you'd come to it cold or had you only been previously exposed to Peter, Paul and Mary's lifeless version from two years earlier then it must have sounded revelatory. Few would've had the opportunity to hear Nyro's astonishing original (which BS&T wisely chose not to stray far from) and in that context this cover is stellar. And I don't wish to crap on BS&T here. Like The 5th Dimension, Three Dog Night and Barbra Streisand, they recorded what is by far the most famous version of a particular Nyro classic but they couldn't hope to get within a solar system of the quality of the original. Most of this is down to Nyro herself since there really isn't much to choose from when it comes to the outstanding musicianship.

Opening with a harmonica solo, the BS&T version does have more of a downhome feel than Nyro's jazzier original. While the difference isn't great, it probably had more commercial appeal, even if the presence of these newfound hitmakers (and, just in case the point needs to be hammered further home, group that was allegedly more popular than The Beatles) was probably reason enough to have greater faith in their recording. (Not that the two were ever in competition with one another; "And When I Die" was never released as a single by Nyro herself) It feels like the crack BS&T band was having a lot of fun on this one, as they should have. 

It's been nearly thirty years since Laura Nyro passed away. While it's hard to imagine what contemporaries like Nick Drake and Gram Parsons would have been up to had they lived longer, it's easy to picture Nyro as this beloved singer-songwriter veteran who puts out a new album every seven years or so and still lives a quiet, vaguely bohemian existence. A full life was denied her but at least an increasing number of music fans take take pleasure in the astonishing albums she but out while only barely out of her twenties. David Clayton Thomas did lead quite the life having only passed this past June. Hopefully they both exited this world in the spirit of this terrific song.  

Score: 8

The Beatles: "Something"

November 15, 1969 (4 weeks)

You Know I Believe — and How!: Rating the Stars of the "Something" Promo

The Beatles gradually began making pop videos as their profile grew and as they began easing up on the live appearances. This way, they could "appear" on Top of the Pops and the Ed Sullivan Show without actually showing up. (Sullivan would often introduce these promos by implying that they had been made specifically for his show which must've lent an air of exclusivity to them) With band unity waning, the vid for "Something" placed the Fab Four away from each other and with the women they were choosing to spend their lives with — along with a very special guest star. Let's look at how each pairing conducts themselves.

1) Martha. She only makes a cameo but Paul's beloved sheepdog (and, needless to say, namesake of "Martha My Dear") is by far the most delightful presence in this clip — and she is clearly the only one who really wants to be there, though I suppose Linda is a close second. With Paul entering a dark period of isolation and some heavy drinking — and, lest we forget, some serious pot smoking — the unconditional love of a dog no doubt helped get through it. That and having a devoted wife and a growing family.

Don't Wanna Leave Her Scale: And how!

2) George and Patti. He wrote the song and it's about her so it makes sense that they would be the humans who make the biggest impression in the "Something" clip. Rob Sheffield describes the pair as "peacocking" around their Kinfaus garden but I get the feeling this was how they were: she had a face for being on camera anyway and he looks like her very serious guru. (Good thing they were just a few months apart in age or this could've come across as a little culty) The ultimate hippie power couple. The very fact that their relationship would begin to come apart in the early seventies doesn't undermine the way they look at each other here.

Don't Wanna Leave Her Scale: I don't need no other lover

3) John and Yoko. Ian MacDonald claimed that the two "brought out the worst in each other" which might explain their decision to sport capes. Jesus, they really deserved each other, didn't they? That said, "Something" is about love and how it can't really ever be rationalized so there you go. Given how dour they typically looked at the time, it's refreshing to see them share a smile. A recently — if temporarily — beardless John even mugs for the camera which is particularly out of place for this period. (He might've pulled one of his old cripple faces had they kept it going any longer) If the public couldn't understand what he saw in her then the very least they could've done was accepted that he nevertheless felt the way he did. Or they could've wondered what the hell she saw in him.

Don't Wanna Leave Her Scale: You know I believe

4) Paul and Linda. There's so much to unpack here. While the solo shot of Mr. Photogenic at his most unsettling is creepy, he looks at ease with his bride by his side while prancing about with the lovable Martha is the most joyous part of the entire video. Still, the McCartneys look out of place. While all four couples had their clips filmed separately, the George, John and Ringo segments all look like they could've been done on the same estate. Meanwhile, Paul's segment was probably filmed up in Scotland which is far less green and far more wind swept then down in the English Home Counties. Still, it feels like the media-savy Paul has his guard down. John and Yoko may have bared all a year earlier but did they ever reveal as much Paul and Linda on their Scots seclusion?

Don't Wanna Leave Her Scale: All I have to do is think of her

5) Ringo and Maureen. They'd been together the longest of the Beatles couples yet Mo was still the youngest of the lot. You'd think the years of experience would've made her more at ease in front of a camera but she looks painfully awkward and he isn't a whole lot better either. Being the Fab who has been the most comfortable with facial hair, it's strange that his neck beard is so bad. Similarly, for a hairdresser, what was she thinking with the peroxide blonde look? Affection between the two? None that I can detect beyond what appears to be the bond of a close friendship.

Don't Wanna Leave Her Scale: I don't know, I don't know

~~~~~

As for the song itself, I don't know what to say. They claim it, along with fellow Abbey Road track "Here Comes the Sun", represents George Harrison's emergence as a songwriter to rival Lennon and McCartney and this is largely true, only I wish The Beatles' final studio album had more of his contributions. I know everyone else loves that medley on side 2 but I could personally do without the bulk of that stuff that precedes the magnificent "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End" passage. Had "All Things Must Pass" and "Isn't It a Pity" been accepted then Abbey Road would have a far more convincing case for The Beatles' greatest album of all time. (The similarly ignored McCartney track "Come and Get It" should also have been included)

Famously and exaggeratedly described by Frank Sinatra as the "greatest love song of the past fifty years", "Something" is that rarest of Beatle numbers that doesn't quite live up to its hype. It isn't far off, mind you, but it just misses out on the absolute pinnacle tier of Fabs classics. What prevents it from climbing that one elusive step higher may well be the very thing that makes it special. McDonald argues that the song's middle eight expresses "callow sentiments" and the whole thing about this "Something" that Patti and other women possess is awfully vague. He can't quite put into words why it is he feels this way and that's how many of us as people experience love but he's the songwriter so couldn't he have tried a little harder? McCartney's love songs range from trite Hallmark greeting card sentiments all the way to expressing bleak depression while Lennon's never fail to invite the listener into his own tortured mind. Meanwhile Harrison is at a loss — and fair enough. The fact that he can't quite describe his situation is precisely what makes "Something" so good but it is a limitation nonetheless.

Score: 9

The Cuff Links: "Tracy"

November 8, 1969 (1 week)

Gosh, it's as if the bubblegum groups didn't get the memo. Then again, neither did the youngsters who kept buying up all this crap. "Sugar, Sugar" ought to have been bubblegum pop's final bit of glory before it got swept away by late sixties' stadium rock and the singer-songwriter boom but there were still enough teenagers who weren't sufficiently tired of it by this point.

Nevertheless, bubblegum was clearly on the way out. If anything, it's a wonder it lasted as long as it did. Just one lame 1910 Fruitgum Company chart topper ought to have been enough for most people but they somehow managed a trio of RPM number ones. If we go by Wikipedia's claim of the dire "Simon Says" (along with the Ohio Express' "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy") as being the sub-genre's jumping off point, "Tracy" is just the seventh bubblegum single to reach the top of Canada's pop charts, with apparently just one more to go. Actually, I say it was clearly on the way out but was that really the case in the late stages of 1969? All I know is that I have had enough it and I just assume everyone was feeling the same way.

Still, there's reason to be not quite as down on The Cuff Links since "Tracy" isn't quite as grim as many of its contemporaries. It's passable. There's oodles of energy in this single, a quality that fellow bubblegum pop records are surprisingly short on. They have a forced jovial air about them which only makes them even more irritating. On the other hand, The Cuff Links are enjoying themselves even if the lyrics are as banal as ever.

I've now rolled my eyes at the likes of the Fruitgums and Tommy Roe and The Archies but I haven't done so in the direction of The Cuffs. This not a resounding recommendation but I might as well try grading bubblegum on a curve. It's simple but that's not always a bad thing. It's moronic but pure pop is often at its best when brain cells aren't quite firing. It's repetitive but the running time is short so there's little chance of boredom entering the picture. It's a perfectly serviceable pop song in a style that struggled to be mediocre. While all the other bubblegum groups had a taste that wore out awfully fast, The Cuff Links almost make you want to keep on chewing.

~~~~~

Finally, a comment on the title which seems rather out of place for its era. Our family friends the Cunninghams have a daughter called Tracy. There was also a Tracy — possibly with an 'e' since she was from Essex — in my class in Billericay during the year I lived in England. A friend of mine in high school had a girlfriend (and, not long after, wife) called Tracy. I can't think of anyone else I've ever known with that name. Not many though I am aware that it is a fairly common name. (I teach in Korea where English names used to be commonplace but I've never once met a Tracy here either) But were there a lot of Tracies back in the sixties? I could be wrong but it strikes me as the sort of name babyboomers gave to their daughters but weren't bestowed upon many of them. Is this what songwriters Lee Pockriss and Paul Vance as well as singer Ron Dante (who, incidentally, is said to have handled all the layers of vocals here) found intriguing about our Trace? With something of an unusual name, perhaps she stood out as a free spirit befitting the wild child sixties. Even the bubblegum popsters couldn't resist these sorts of chicks and who could blame them?

Score: 6

Elvis Presley: "Suspicious Minds"

October 18, 1969 (3 weeks)

It had been just shy of five years since Elvis Presley last topped the Canadian charts but a great deal had changed during this time. The rush of Beatlemania was still very much a going concern, the United States was still reeling from the assassination of President John F. Kennedy a year earlier and the Americans were still a distant second to the hated Soviets in the space race. By the latter part of 1969, however, the Fab Four were all but done as a recording unit, guns deaths among influential individuals in the States had become an all-too common occurrence and NASA sent Apollo 11 to the Moon. Meanwhile, Elvis Presley went from being famous for being in some mighty stupid movies and a wildly erratic song catalog to someone who had become famous for being famous and who, well, had an even more wildly erratic song catalog.

The narrative that typically surrounds The King's famed 1969 Comeback Special is how tranformative it was for him - although only temporarily, as it would turn out. Elvis lost weight, looked like the sex god he had always meant to be and, crucially, was finally performing some first rate material after years in the creative doldrums. Yet, things aren't nearly as simple as all that. For one thing, RPM Top 10 "U.S. Male" from the early part of '68 suggests that he hadn't completely lost his way (a powerhouse version of Jimmy Reed's "Big Boss Man" dates from the same session which only emphasizes how much he still had it — at least some of the time). On the other hand, the 1969 post-Comeback global smash "In the Ghetto" was then followed by the uninspired "Clean Up Your Own Backyard" from one of those dismal B movies that were supposed to have been wiped clean by his return as a rock 'n' roll rebel. The only thing consistent about Elvis was how damn inconsistent he was.

The good thing about yo-yoing is that there's the opportunity to bounce back and Elvis did so and then some with "Suspicious Minds". Again, it's tempting to put this all down to the Comeback Special as well as the early '69 sessions that resulted in the finest album of his career, the remarkable From Elvis in Memphis. Yet, a renewed Elvis was still going to Elvis about as evidenced on the Back in Memphis half of that autumn's From Memphis to Vegas / From Vegas to Memphis release. A part live, part studio creation, it far more accurately predicts the remaining years of Elvis' life than its far superior predecessor: The King bouncing from his Graceland home to the Las Vegas strip while quality control once again began to unravel. While not a bad work, it pales next to From Elvis in Memphis' sustained coming together of rock, soul, gospel and country.

Mercifully left off either of Elvis' 1969 album releases, "Suspicious Minds" was allowed to take on a life of its own. "In the Ghetto" proved to be a solemn conclusion to From Elvis in Memphis but I've never been convinced by it as a single. No, there was only one song from this key year that needed to come out on its own and it was "Suspicious Minds", arguably the sturdiest 45 of his career. Fans of modern pop who had associated Elvis more with his shitty movies now had a tune of his that they could fully appreciate. With fifties' revivalism gaining steam over the course of the year (John Lennon and a makeshift Plastic Ono Band performed only a month earlier at the Toronto Rock 'n' Roll Revival Festival), it would have been seen as perfectly natural to have him right back with his old backing band and the Jordinaires but there's little of the '56 rebel present. Instead, he's accompanied by Memphis studio aces and is singing like a man in his mid-thirties.

As Tom Breihan astutely observes, Elvis chose not to read paranoia into a song about unfaithful partners. Rather, his celebratory tone suggests that he's been getting up to no good, they're both aware of this and that he's in no position to change his destructive habits. ("He's not caught in a trap at all," Breihan notes — and even if he is, he plainly doesn't give a shit anyway) For someone who never could keep to his marriage vows, this certainly tracks. (When people say they hate Elvis because he didn't write his own songs they seem to be unaware of The King's uncanny ability to take someone else's lyrics and apply them directly to himself, at least when the material he was working with inspired him enough to do so)

Considering his background in fifties' pop brevity, it's unusual to hear an Elvis song that goes on for so damn long. At around the two-and-a-half minute mark it feels like it's going to come to a close but then it keeps building with backing singers and strings filling in the gaps. Another sixty seconds and then it begins to fade only for everything to come roaring back, as if the Memphis producers and engineers had a last second change of heart on when to close out the session. While Brian Wilson may have done fade outs for effect, this sounds like a mistake being righted in real time. A two to three minute "Suspicious Minds" would have been fine but letting it go on allows the listener to luxuriate in Elvis' glory. "We could leave 'em wanting more or, fuck it, how about we just give 'em more?"

No longer serving up pablum to accompany terrible movies, nor particularly interested in market trends, Elvis was at long last able simply to be Elvis. He had excellent songs to choose from and a peerless group of musicians at his beck and call. The Vegas residency had begun but he seemed to take much of what he'd acquired back home in Memphis with him. Yet, the momentum following his Comeback Special was gone and even at his best his output was all over the place. (His version of "Hey Jude" from around this time is appalling) Elvis could rise to incredible heights but the inevitable falls from grace were just as dramatic. And if you thought that nearly five years without a number one hit had been a long time then get ready for a bit of a wait until we encounter him again. If only someone had demanded a little more action from him following his extraordinary Comeback.

Score: 10

Nilsson: "Everybody's Talkin'"

October 11, 1969 (1 week)

There are numerous examples of pop songs that became hits by accident. (So numerous that I couldn't possible begin to list them here; either that or I just don't feel like doing so) Numbers earmarked as B sides that became unexpected sensations after DJ's flipped them over or afterthought compositions that a group or artist had to be cajoled into recording only for it to become a surprise smash. The pop instincts of musicians, songwriters, producers and, in particular, record execs can seldom predict what will or will not catch on.

This is more or less the story of how "Everybody's Talkin'" came to life. Singer-songwriter Fred Neil was set to finish recording his second album in the autumn of 1967 when he was informed by his manager that he had to have at least one more track recorded (what with nine cuts presumably being considered insufficient for pop-rock LPs). With no desire to belabour the process any longer than necessary, Neil dusted off a ditty that he had written a year earlier and had it in the can in one take. "Everybody's Talkin'" was thus added to the running order of his self-titled sophomore release.

The thing about this anecdote is that it tracks. "Everybody's Talkin'" is brief but nevertheless stretched out to two minutes and forty-five seconds. Verse, chorus, rinse, repeat. If the record buying public hadn't been so touched by Harry Nilsson's recording of it, they might have considered it insubstantial. It doesn't even sound like Neil bothered to finish writing it. (What sounds like an attempt at a second stanza — "I won't let you leave my love behind..." — pops up near the end, a line many of the acts who have since covered it chose to leave off their versions)

On the Fred Neil album "Everybody's Talkin'" is just another track that blends in with the whole, a languid drifter that is very much in the shadow of the record's one real highlight, the magnificent "The Dolphins". As recorded by Nilsson, however, it becomes breezy, a sailboat gently rocking as its anchored in a bay. Now, the obvious point in its favour is the singer. While Nilsson's status as an "American Beatle" is ludicrous (a moniker that even members of the Fab Four themselves misguidedly applied to him), there's no denying that he does this song justice. (Though frequently described as a singer-songwriter himself, there's no doubt in my mind that he really excelled was standards) The musicianship is similarly first rate and a marked improvement on Neil's original uninspired original. Of note is the lovely guitar picking of veteran sessioner Al Casey, whose seemingly hurried style of playing rather neatly suits the song's origins.

Its one real weakness is just how undercooked the writing is. An initial listen doesn't reveal much beyond its strengths but repeated plays start unraveling just how little there is to this thing. While he isn't the first city dweller to long for "where the sun keeps shinin'" — and is by no means the last either — why is such a blissfully unaware individual so bothered about escaping? Their whispers and their stares don't matter to them so there's no need to get the hell out of New York City or Hong Kong or wherever. A fuller lyrical narrative might have answered these concerns.  The end result is enchanting enough that few noticed — not at first at any rate — but it's a flaw that can't be unheard once you've become aware of how its composer tossed it off. On the other hand, the fact that this isn't immediately apparent is a credit to Nilsson and merits an extra point on the score sheet. Someone should've called him Nilsson Skillsson.

Score: 7