Oliver: "Jean"

October 4, 1969 (1 week)

Ruining a fairly good song is one thing but what about when you aren't able to do anything with rubbish material? Does this further condemn a crummy artist or should we take pity on him or her?

Oliver was the third and last act to have a Canadian number one with a song taken from the smash musical Hair. He was also the only one of the lot to then follow it up with another chart topper. (Both The 5th Dimension and The Cowsills had had number ones prior to "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" and "Hair" with "Up, Upand Away" and "The Rain, the Park and Other Things" respectively) He would never again have this level of fame so he was right to strike while the iron was hot. And it seemingly mattered little that his second RPM number one was much weaker than his first (which wasn't very good to begin with).

Given that he'd done so well with a song from Hair, it was only right that Oliver should have taken on material from another soundtrack, this time from the British motion picture The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie starring the great Maggie Smith. Adapted from the acclaimed Muriel Spark book of the same name, it did well with critics, earning Smith an Academy Award for playing the titular character. The theme song was nominated for an Oscar as well, proving that film critics have no business adjudicating music.

As I say, it's not all Oliver's fault (except for the fact that he chose to record it). "Jean" was written by poet and songwriter Rod McKuen. If you've ever wondered why there aren't more individuals who specialize in both disciplines, McKuen managed to prove that one could make money from verse without being any good at it. His poems belonged in Hallmark greeting cards while his songs wouldn't have been acceptable to even the most tasteless advertising executives. Bryan Adams on his worst day puts more care into his lyrics than McKuen ever did.

Poor words are bad enough but the melody is so syrupy sweet that I can practically feel tooth decay setting in. As if resigned to his fate, Oliver's interpretation goes full melodrama. Hey, who can really blame him? The material he had to work with called for it. Hard to rise to the occasion under the circumstances. Oliver is probably the very best thing about this utterly grim recording but he wasn't up to the challenge of making chicken salad from chicken shit. I'll say I feel sorry for his nibs but only up to a point. Save the pity party for me since I had to listen to this monstrously awful song.

Score: 1

The Archies: "Sugar, Sugar"

September 13, 1969 (3 weeks)

"Sugar, Sugar" came out of The Archie Show, a late sixties Saturday morning cartoon, the first of many (mostly dismal) attempts to adapt the popular comic book characters from Riverdale High to the small screen. Yet, when presented with having to do cover art for the single in various territories, as well as The Archies' debut album, their record label didn't go with an image from the series. Instead, they went with a drawing that could've come straight out of an issue of Laugh or Pep. It even appears to have been the work of the great Dan DeCarlo, one of two Archie artists who ought to be as renowned as Stan Lee, Steve Ditko or bloody Todd McFarlane (Samm Schwartz is the other). The bland, cheap-looking skethces used for the cartoon weren't going to shift as many units as one that youngsters would associate with the comics and rightfully so.

For my part, I find it difficult to extricate Archie from all those great magazines and digests of my youth. (My favouites were the aforementioned Laugh as well as the Jughead with Archie digest) While I tried to get into Marvel comics as a boy, I found it impossible to keep up with them. I could pick up an issue of, say, The Avengers, Fantastic Four or Alpha Flight — Canada, baby! — and either be totally engrossed in the story or utterly lost because I'd missed the previous months' volume. But the world of Archie had no semblance of canon. Those double digests that I'd often get for those long days on the road during camping trips would depict old Arch as a jock in one story and then have him as a dweeb in the next. Similarly, he could be besotted by Veronica in one story then smitten by Betty in another. Did it bother me if I missed an issue? No because it would eventually end up recycled in a digest.

A feature of The Archie Show was that Archie Andrews had a band alongside chums Betty Cooper, Jughead Jones, Veronica Lodge and Reggie Mantle and that they were named after himself. (And Reggie was the one with the ego!) Episodes would conclude with a number "performed" by The Archies. The comic books went along with it though, surprisingly, they never went with a series based on the band. Still, they'd pop up here and there, sometimes as a struggling, go nowhere high school group, other times as a genuine pop phenomenon. While Jughead's dog Hot Dog wasn't involved (as opposed to the cartoon in which he was the conductor), their setup was not unlike that on the cover of the single above: Archie and Reggie on guitars, Veronica on keyboards, Betty on tambourine and Jughead on drums — and, crucially, no microphones to be seen. While they did occasionally sing, more often than not it seemed like The Archies were an instrumental act.

This brings me to the biggest reason why I hate "Sugar, Sugar": Archie's voice. While seldom one of the more interesting characters in Riverdale, Arch could be relatable. He was a often a voice of reason when held up next to Reggie's narcissism, Jughead's gluttony and laziness, Veronica's vanity, Betty's inferiority and Big Moose's jealous fits of rage. I may have identified with Jug and secretly wished I could've been more like Reg but Archie was the everyman. His voice shatters this concept. He sounds slick and polished, not unlike a professional singer doing TV jingles. The fictional band had been the brainchild of Don Kirchner, the impresario who had previously been behind the early success of The Monkees. Having come off the mutiny engineered by the prefab four, Kirchner figured session musicians could handle everything without the fear of rebellion against the puppet masters. If this meant that they'd have to settle for the character-free singing of Ron Dante then so be it.

A good many pop connoisseurs regard "Sugar, Sugar" as a triumph of bubblegum but I think it's the last gasp of a subgenre that had worn out its welcome. The cutesy organ parts on The Monkees' "I'm a Believer" had by this point become tired, a bubblegum pop cliche. The generation of American acts who managed to carve out an uneasy balance between garage rock and bubblegum had begun to fade away and what remained was a soulless, corporate crapfest. But take much of my disdain for what it is: a man in his late forties whose youth was formed in part by Archie comics (as a ten year old my only other passions were Slurpees and wrestling) but who never warmed to the property in other forms of media. Beyond being a mostly instrumental act, I had no real idea of what The Archies would've sounded like but I wouldn't have imagined them sounding so lifeless. 

In a memorable issue of the relaunched Jughead series from 1987, Archie's eccentric best friend becomes a fan of a jazz drummer called Crazy Willie Jim. They meet and Jug discovers that his idol is impoverished and living in a shelter. He invites him to an Archies' gig and Willie Jim is so impressed by them that he says "you cats can really cook!". (The drummer then sits in for Jughead and wows the audience with his playing) Was it "Sugar, Sugar" that made an old jazz vet sit up and take notice? Call me a music snob but I think not — and, again, there wasn't any singing involved anyway. Wait, was Archie's subpar vocals the reason they became an instrumental band? I think I've cracked it.

~~~~~

Can Con aficionados might try to make a case for "Sugar, Sugar" as yet another number one hit from north of the forty-ninth parallel, thus making it four chart toppers on the bounce. Andy Kim, who we only just encountered with his very impressive version of The Ronettes' "Baby, I Love You", co-wrote The Archies' signature song which I guess could qualify it on a technicality. My standards aren't nearly as generous. I have already kept The Mamas and the Papas, the Lovin' Spoonful and Blood, Sweat and Tears from being included as Canadian number ones so there's not much hope for "Sugar, Sugar". Still, this does tell you what a force Kim was for a time even if it also suggests that his talents could be used for evil as well as good.

Score: 3

The Guess Who: "Laughing"

September 6, 1969 (1 week)

It had been over four years since the group that had now fully committed to their alter ego last appeared at the top of the Canadian pop charts. Back then they were officially known as Chad Allan and the Expressions but their quaint name no longer meant much since all but guitarist Randy Bachman had left just a year after their eye-popping version of "Shakin' All Over" hit the top. The novelty of having everyone try to guess who they were then turned into a permanent name, one that would completely overtake their previous monkier. Guess Who? No, now they were The Guess Who.

While it took them a while to return to the top of the RPM hit parade, The Guess Who were chart regulars throughout the mid to late sixties. They would have nine further Top 40 entries following "Shakin' All Over", with "Tossin' and Turnin'", "Hey Ho, What You Do to Me" and "Believe Me" all reaching the Top 10. The former is most significant as it was Bachman's first self-composed hit. Though still featuring Chad Allan on vocals, it marked the entry point for a young Burton Cummings who filled in on piano. An invigorating single, "Believe Me" mixed British Invasion hooks with American garage rock sass. As if auditioning for a spot, Cummings' keyboard solo is incredible and invites speculation as to how they would've turned out had Allan remained behind the mic. (I say they would've been more accomplished musically even though their records wouldn't have been as good)

Despite the continuing hits there were signs that diminishing returns were setting in. After the single "His Girl" peaked at number nineteen, they would would struggle to make much of an impact on the upper section of the charts. The group still relied on outside composers and cover versions but the Bachman/Cummings team were beginning to write together. Little of quality resulted at first but then in 1969 "These Eyes" returned them to relevance.

It's actually surprising that I am reviewing the relatively forgettable "Laughing" rather than its predecessor. "These Eyes" has Cummings' soulful, laid back vocals and has a middle-of-the-road quality to it that ought to have put it over the top. Sure, its chart placings — number seven in Canada, six down in the States, their highest placement on the Hot 100 to date — were encouraging but they seem a little harsh in retrospect. For one thing, it is sometimes credited as being the catalyst for the Canadian Invasion of the United States which would make more sense had it gone all the way to number one. Up in Canada "These Eyes" would end up walking so that "Laughing" could run.

I did wonder if perhaps "Laughing" benefited from a lull in the quality of singles as Canadian kids were heading back to school that September but it faced respectable competition (The Rolling Stones' "Honky Tonk Women", Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue", Motherlode's "When I Die" and The Archies' "Sugar, Sugar" made up the rest of the Top 5 that week). Hot on the heels of a pair of Canadians who'd had the previous two number ones, it's possible there was a push to complete the trio — although I have to say this seems pretty unlikely. For whatever reason, a passable rocker managed to return the Winnipeg foursome to the top when a much better single had failed to do so. Them's the breaks, I guess.

Not so much a welcome return as a minor let down, "Laughing" is the only one of a quartet of Guess Who chart toppers that really didn't need to peak that high. They did far better way back when they were still known as Chad Allan and the Expressions, they did far better with their previous single and they would have far better to come. With changes in lineup and yo-yoing popularity, The Guess Who were still very much a work in progress.

~~~~~

As I mention above, "Laughing" was the third straight RPM number one by a Canadian group or artist. Considering the scarcity of domestic chart toppers up until this point, this is a considerable achievement. Whatsmore, all three — Andy KIm's "Baby, I Love You", Motherlode's aforementioned hit and The Guess Who themsevles — managed to make it into the Top 20 of the Hot 100 as well. Even with Canadian pop reaching its zenith, three homegrown number ones on the bounce isn't something that will happen for a long time. I haven't looked it up specifically though I do think it will occur again in 1996. Can it happen between now and then? Only time will tell. (But no, it almost certainly won't)

Score: 5

Motherlode: "When I Die"

August 23, 1969 (2 week)

'Toronto Soul' doesn't have a great ring to it (plus, it isn't accurate). 'London Soul' sounds contrived since a true pop R&B movement originating in the heart of the Old Empire would no doubt have had a more region-specific name like 'Putney Soul' or 'Notting Hill Soul' (plus, again, it ain't accurate since we're clearly talking about a different London; I gotta say though I like the sound of 'Putney Soul'). 'Ontario Soul' is too broad. 'Maple Soul' would've been a realistic name in the twenty-first century but not nearly sixty years ago. 'Golden Horseshoe Soul'? Okay, now you're just being silly. No wonder they ended up settling for 'Philadelphia Soul'.

Oh but I jest. Though a surprise Top 20 success on the Billboard Hot 100, it's not likely that Motherlode's lone American hit did much to move the needle from sixties' Stax and Motown over to smooth as cream cheese Philly. Yet, "When I Die" does sound like pretty much the first seventies' soul number. Just as The Beatles and Rolling Stones were getting audiences ready for seventies' stadium rock and Dylan was preparing the world for more grounded and personal seventies' folk, here was the multi-racial Motherlode with a soft launch into seventies' soul.

This presents one of the difficulties about trying to judge singles from afar. I have no doubt that "When I Die" would've seemed like something new when it first started playing on Canadian radio in the summer of '69.(If a ten year old Bryan Adams was indeed engaging in raunchy sex acts — which, to be sure, he wasn't and never did since "Summer of '69" isn't about anything — he was almost certainly doing so to silky Motherlode) Listening to it now, it just sounds like another great vocal R&B pop song from a couple years' later. I can't possibly hear it sounding like nothing that's ever come before since it now sounds like so much that came after.

Still, why punish the good people behind Motherlode — unless, of course, it's in order to take them to task for their terrible name which makes them seem like an especially hopeless heavy metal band - for being ahead of the game? Being influential is supposed to be a good thing. (I can't think of any other reason why anyone would wish to praise The Band and all their boring albums) That said, I already mentioned that their influence was likely negligible anyway. As a one-off of Canadiana R&B, it is a thing to behold. How didn't this influence an entire generation?

Being well ahead of the pack meant that there were no cliches for Motherlode to fall victim to. While predominantly soul, the middle 8 of "When I Die" ("it's not hard to understand why...") owes a lot to contemporary pop-rock. The musicianship also displays a good deal more muscle than what James and Bobby Purify or Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes had backing them, with some fine blues licks as adornment. (Speaking of which, why is it that so much modern R&B seems lacking in the 'B'?)

I don't wish to lay the praise on too thick. While a strong track, it fails to really grab the listener — this listener at any rate — for a prolonged period. The vocals are first rate but they don't lift you out of your seat the way great soul — great music for that matter — does so effortlessly. While a summer RPM number one and a sizable hit elsewhere, it would soon become overshadowed by a more memorable composition with almost the same name, which will be coming up soon enough. Liking this piece of stellar 'Hyde Park Soul' is easy enough but loving it? Yeah, I'm not quite there.

Score: 7

Andy Kim: "Baby, I Love You"

August 9, 1969 (2 weeks)

One of the key differences between the British Invasion and the Canadian Invasion is that the latter wasn't simply an American concern. In the case of the former, The Beatles arrived in New York in the early part of 1964, millions of Americans watched them on the Ed Sullivan Show and the floodgates opened, first mainly for the Fab Four themselves and then for other British acts. But the less famous Canadian invasion of the late sixties was almost as much about artists who conquered their homeland in addition to hitting it big down south. Up until now, only nine domestic singles managed to make it to the top of the charts — and, with all due respect to them, the majority seem like flukes.

August 9, 1969 marks the unofficial start of the long-awaited (at least as far as this blog is concerned) Canadian Invasion. And what a way to kick it off than with Andy Kim, one of the leading stars of the music scene north of the border. While his name may not carry the same weight today as future chart toppers such as The Guess Who, Gordon Lightfoot, Anne Murray and Neil Young, he was a pretty big deal in his day. We'll even be encountering him again in this blog. Yet Kim's status as a purveyor of rather schlocky soft rock — assuming he's even remembered for that — makes him seem like an heir to Paul Anka rather than as a legitimate pop-rock star in his own right.

Being a prolific songwriter (we'll be getting to what is perhaps the biggest cash cow of his career very soon) it is a little surprising that Andy Kim's maiden RPM number one is a cover version. Smartly, he didn't go for anything too obvious and/or well known. "Baby, I Love You" had been a mid-sized hit for The Ronettes back in 1963, following on from the smash "Be My Baby". Beyond their signature song, they would gradually become renowned for their work on Phil Spector's Christmas album but, otherwise, they might as well have been one hit wonders. Even though "Baby, I Love You" made the Top 30 of the Hot 100 and only just missed the UK the Top 10 in the UK, Kim managed to make it his own with this deceptively simple cover.

Listening to it a while ago in the build up to 1969's batch of number ones, I had assumed it to be a Kim original. No doubt prompted by a booming kettle drum in the background, I made note of the debt owed to Phil Spector's famed Wall of Sound. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that it was a Jeff Barry/Ellie Greenwich composition from the early sixties all along, with Spector giving himself a bullshit co-writing credit, as was his wont. As if addressing the eccentric, peace of shit producer double dipping on the royalties, it was Barry himself who produced this rendition. My issue with Spector is that he'd unnecessarily drown the artists he worked with in his production excess. Barry retained the signature Wrecking Crew sound while better servicing Kim's talents. The resigned melancholy in his voice can picked up on. Plus, the downbeat sentiments of the lyrics are nicely contrasted with the upbeat melody and arrangement. As such, you might say "Baby, I Love You" anticipates the coming era of ABBA.

Neither a folk rock standout nor a classic rock staple, "Baby, I Love You" is nevertheless a terrific start to the Canadian Invasion. (Even though the Top 10 success of The Guess Who's "These Eyes" in the US that spring is more commonly cited) A subtle borrowing of American pop — now there's something it has in common with the British Invasion — but done far more tastefully, it is a huge advance from Little Caesar and the Consuls' Motown-lite "You've Really Got a Hold on Me". Andy Kim may not have written it but he nevertheless ought to be proud of it to this day.

Score: 8

Zager and Evans: "In the Year 2525 (Exordium and Terminus)"

August 2, 1969 (1 week)

Bassist Colin Moulding of XTC once described his eccentric recording "What in the World??..." as being "Telstar" and "In the Year 2525" rolled into one. (I do not have the source available to me so you'll just have to take my word for it) Though a fun bit of space rock psychedelia, there was no way that his lone contribution to The Dukes of Stratosphear's mini album 25 O'Clock could have possibly lived up to the former. "Telstar" is a peerless pop masterpiece, end of discussion. The latter, however, left plenty of room to be improved upon.

We'll get to Zager and Evans' curious choice of music in a bit but let's begin with the lyrics to their only hit: they are (to put it kindly) dog shit. Rhymes are telegraphed, metre goes out the window at times and consistency be damned! My friend Adian over at Irish Number Ones takes them to task for straying from the path of charting every hundred and ten years — 2525, 3535, 4545, 5555 and 6565 — by making an out-of-nowhere jump to 7510 and 8510. ("Come on Zager and Evans, commit to the bit!") While he is indeed correct that this is jarring, I feel that it would have been preferable had they been far looser with the years they were looking towards. Here are a few that I have in mind:

In the year 3691, you ain't gonna be having any fun

In the year 4722, there won't be shit for you to do

In the year 5198, famine will make us all underweight

In the year 6417, the land is brown and no more green

Yeah, not my best effort on the parody front (but, honestly, are they any worse than what Zager and Evans came up with?). This is one of the reasons why XTC/The Dukes' "What in the World??..." is such a gas. Moulding has fun delivering lines that affectionately acknowledge acid rock while also sending it up. (If anyone ever did psychedelic pop while not on chemicals it was him) Lines like "2032, housewives Shocking Blue" (yes, I know it's meant to be "shock in blue" but I prefer to think Moulding was name-dropping a certain Dutch group who will be coming up here fairly soon) or "2033, cannabis in tea" (you know, we're getting very close to discovering if this shit's going to happen or not) are just messing with us — and messing with bloody Zager and Evans and their clumsy lyrics.

Now to the music. Not very futuristic, is it? Once again, I turn to Aidan whose comment on the matter ("The ranchera guitar strum and trumpet blare suggest that, come Armageddon, all that will survive are cockroaches and mariachi bands") is genuinely funny and hints that a coming space age of holograms, food in pill form and traveling at light speed won't matter to those of us who'll be trying to get through the dystopia Zager and Evan foresee. In a timeline not unlike that of the 2017 motion picture Logan, it's perfectly reasonable to expect little to entertain us beyond mariachi bands as we numb ourselves on homemade moonshine and crave even the cheapest, dirtiest sex.

"In the Year 2525" is the sort of thing I'm grateful exists, only with the caveat that I'd be happy not to have to ever listen to it again. Zager and Evans are to be commended for imagining such a bleak future, especially at the same time that the Apollo 11 mission to the Moon had entranced people around the world. I appreciate the effort but I am far less respectful of the results. It didn't have to be "Telstar" — it didn't even have to be "What in the World??..." for God's sake — but a coming hellscape of environmental collapse, food shortages, extinction events and government mind control deserved much better. Fortunately, we'd be getting classic albums like Marvin Gaye's What's Going On and The Beach Boys' Surf's Up before long. They weren't going to be predicting humanity's destruction but at least they would make environmentalism into a viable subject matter for strong pop.

Score: 4

Tommy James and the Shondells: "Crystal Blue Persuasion"

July 28, 1969 (1 week)

There is only about twenty seconds left in the running time of "Crystal Blue Persuasion" when it finally comes to life. After three minutes of suspect and highly unconvincing psychedelic chamber pop, the former garage rockers put their true skills to good use. It's the sort of wildly energetic jam that can only come from years of chaotic rehearsals as the players familiarize themselves with one another. Though agonizingly brief, Tommy James and the Shondells suddenly become a force.

The bulk of "Crystal Blue Persuasion" sounds like it came from wishing to re-do previous chart topper "Crimson and Clover". Yet, for all that was wrong with its predecessor, at least it had a melody that simply begged to be fleshed out into a proper song. Try as they might to be a cool hippie adjacent act, they came across as a an average fifties' doo-wop act. Not much had changed here though the Spanish guitar playing, probably played by lead guitarist Eddie Gray, is inspired. Listening to it repeatedly, it's as if the remainder of the group had become resentful and wanted in on the action. Holding off until they couldn't take it any longer, the Shondells explode into a coda of recklessness. But even here they don't quite get it right: as I say above, this passage is just twenty seconds which isn't nearly enough time to settle into a nice groove. (I like to think that they'd stretch it out in concert which they did indeed do but they still failed to go far enough for my taste)

I must say I feel a little guilty knocking Tommy James and the Shondells because I admire them for giving it a try. They refused to get stuck in the trap of garage rock — which many of their contemporaries failed to avoid —: but in attempting to push past their roots they proved to be in over their heads. It's a no win situation and I appreciate that. Still, those final moments of "Crystal Blue Persuasion" hint at a path that they could have gone down successfully, one that used their terrific ensemble playing in some fine jam rock. Baroque pop was suited to them and only made them seem even more amateurish than when they were putting out "Hanky Panky" and "I Think We're Alone Now".

The other thing worth mentioning here is that this more or less marks the end of the garage rockers as a chart fixture. D.I.Y. rock wasn't going anywhere but the era of suburban teenage bands practicing in the garages and rumpus rooms of split level houses all over North America had passed. Adolescents would either go over-ambitious (heavy metal, prog rock) or far too simplistic (punk) or, worst of all, into the boring and predictable realms (power pop, obvisouly). Garage rock's major advantage was in how it was malleable enough for bands to become whatever they wished to be. Great musicians could thrive but so too could those of more limited capabilities. Results could vary just as much as with any other genre but that's not the point: what matters is that groups could stumble their way into creativity, whether through excellent songwriting, formidable playing or just going all out with a group of chums just for the hell of it.

Score: 4

Blood, Sweat and Tears: "Spinning Wheel"

July 7, 1969 (3 weeks)

"What goes up, must come down..."

It was good of Blood, Sweat and Tears to look ahead to their eventual demise as a top chart act. We are only at the midway point of their year long imperial phase but it's not unreasonable to assume that they were well aware that their unique brand of jazz-pop wasn't going to be fashionable for an extended period. Then again, pop groups being convinced that they have longevity on their side isn't uncommon so maybe David Clayton Thomas was going on about others whose careers were also about to go tits up.

The follow-up to their breakthrough smash "You've Made Me So Very Happy", "Spinning Wheel" ought to be BS&T at the peak of their powers. Commercially speaking, it is. Three weeks atop the RPM hit parade while stuck at number two for the same amount of time (it was blocked first by Henry Mancini's "Love Theme from Romeo and Juliet" and then by Zager and Evans' "In the Year 2525", a single we'll be getting to real soon) while their self-titled second album was shifting huge numbers is an enviable position to be in. The Canadian singles charts were jammed with big name acts during this summer including the likes of The Beatles ("The Ballad of John and Yoko" which was practically a flop in North America by their usual standards), Elvis Presley ("In the Ghetto") and Tom Jones ("Love Me Tonight"); BS&T saw them all off.

Creatively, however, it was a somewhat different matter. Though penned by Thomas — and thus giving the mainly American group some Con Can bonus points — "Spinning Wheel" is too similar to its predecessor. Two hits in and they were already doing more of the same. Except this is a classic case of more-of-the-same-but-not-quite-as-good-this-time-round. Thomas went almost exclusively with his gruff grandfatherly vocal here while sacrificing the remainder of his remarkable range. (It may seem strange that sounding like you're two hundred years old wasn't considered to be a turn off but both Johnny Cash and Joe Cocker were equally geriatric in their singing and they both did very well) Luckily, musical high standards are maintained with a propulsive performance, especially from the horn section and drummer Bobby Colomby.

Never exactly critical darlings, I feel the need to defend BS&T. It's as if they were the Dave Matthews Band of their era: a competent group with nice songs and strong musicianship whose cool factor had become a void. Plus, they didn't inspire generations of cool kid bands which no doubt didn't help their cause. On the other hand, I can see why plenty of people thought they were simply all right or just didn't give a shit about them. There's not much here to thrill listeners. "Spinning Wheel" is a slightly above average single but one that I have little desire to ever listen to again. I'm not even all that interested in hearing anymore of their discography which is fine since there's just one more to go before they began coming down.

Score: 6

Oliver: "Good Morning Starshine"

June 30, 1969 (1 week)

The mania for Hair at the midway point of 1969 was such that it wasn't simply established acts like The 5th Dimension and The Cowsills who could score a hit with a song from taken from the musical. The admittedly already in ascendant Three Dog Night nabbed their second straight Top 5 smash with "Easy to Be Hard". But by far the most star-making pop smash was, rather appropriately, "Good Morning Starshine" by some fella from the American south who went by the stage name Oliver.

(Question: was it considered to be way too on-the-nose for a guy being billed as 'Oliver' to have done "Food, Glorious Food" or "Consider Yourself" instead?)

Interest was still there but, just as crucially, so was the desire to milk it for all that it was worth. Had "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" or "Hair" not been released as singles at this time it's easy to imagine many wondering why the hell not — and the same even goes for "Easy to Be Hard". But "Good Morning Starshine" is where the line must be drawn. While a perfectly fine tune, especially for someone with an expressive stage voice, it is bland as a potential pop song.

North Carolina native William Oliver Swofford was a twenty-four year old singer when "Good Morning Starshine" fell into his lap. How it came to him I have no idea but I approve of having singles spun off from successful musicals being used to help launch relative unknowns. The 5th Dimension didn't need to be associated with Hair. The Cowsills did a hell of a job with the title track but Billy and Bob could have contributed an original instead and it would've been just as good. (That said, it probably wouldn't have been nearly as big a hit) The Three Dog Night were likely going to be just as big without "Easy to Be Hard" on their resume. Oliver, on the other hand, needed "Good Morning Starshine" in order to have the fleetingly successful career that he enjoyed. It's just too bad that his recording is so forgettable. (Just how forgettable is it? Well, I've been listening to it for the past several days but can't remember anything about his version and I've forgotten most of what I've been wanting to write about it in this very review)

The one real positive is that Oliver's hit probably prompted the folks in charge of a brand new children's TV show called Sesame Street to use it in a segment. They got the sweet natured Bob McGrath to put on a flowery shirt and sing it along with a half dozen hippie-ish muppets. And it is glorious. McGrath put his college glee club background to good use with a beautifully sung rendition that renders Oliver's redundant. Forgettable? This one is anything but. McGrath being the consummate pro, he not only sings it beautifully but he doesn't for a second step out of being the show's resident kindly English teacher. Even his momentary giggle is a delight. And it's understandable why the show's creators went with it: the melody is dreamy and the nonsense verses ("Glibby gloop gloopy, nibby nabby noopy...) are perfect for kids. For all I know, all of this is present and correct in Oliver's recording too but damn if I was paying attention.

Score: 3 (with an unofficial score of 9 for the Bob McGrath/hippie muppet version)

~~~~~

C'Mon, Be a CHUM!

I have done these additional reviews for quite some time but I happened to check out the CHUM charts and discovered that Desmond Dekker's sublime "Israelites". At a respectable number eleven the week Oliver was on top, it would peak at nine. Yeah, it's way too low, especially compared to it becoming a chart topper over in the UK, but it wasn't as if Jamaican music was taking over the North American music scene during this time. Having not heard it in quite some time, I'm struck by what a remarkably elastic voice Dekker possessed. It wouldn't be long before the influence of The Wailers prompted a certain way of Jamaican patois singing so it's rather refreshing to hear it done in a much more natural, far less caricatured manner. An absorbing single that gets better with every subsequent listen it would've been an easy 10 had Canadians made better choices at the start of the summer of '69. (It was just the third UK number one to get a full score from Tom Ewing. Check out his excellent review here)

The Beatles: "Get Back"

May 19, 1969 (6 weeks)

We're now at the point in the story of The Beatles where my interest finally begins to wane — which is fitting considering this also happens to be where John Lennon and George Harrison were also getting bored. No doubt there are many who sincerely feel that they never had a better creative year than 1969 but I am not one of them. If anything, it's probably their least impressive twelve months of activity since they became full time recording artists at the end of '62. (Speaking of which, I know it's trite to say it but how the hell did they do all that in just seven years?) But what do I know? The Canadian public was evidently so fond of their latest single "Get Back" that they kept it at number one for an impressive, if over-generous, six weeks, their longest spell at the top of charts since "I Want to Hold Your Hand" took hold of the CHUM hit parade for precisely the same amount of time.

(This means that it spent as much time on top of the Canadian charts than the combined total that "Help!", "We Can Work It Out", "Nowhere Man", "Paperback Writer", "Yellow Submarine" / "Eleanor Rigby" and "Penny Lane" spent in the same spot. In other words, it reigned for as long as the Fab Four at their absolute peak. And this was by no means an isolated incident on the part of my fellow Canadians: "Get Back" spent six weeks on top in Ireland, seven in the UK, five in the US and four in Australia (as well as a paltry two in New Zealand). A nonsense blues shuffle with supposed back-to-basics values was just the thing the people wanted even if the band to end all bands was going downhill)

In many territories, "Get Back" was credited to 'The Beatles with Billy Preston'. This broke with convention as guest musicians were sometimes not even named let alone given a prominent co-credit. Preston's organ part was deemed to be so vital that he merited such an honour. Yet, in Canada not as much consideration seems to have been afforded the keyboardist. While the stamp on the centre of the label of the Canadian release does say '...with Billy Preston', compilers of both the RPM and CHUM charts neglected to print his name  While this may seem like an oversight, I prefer to think of it as the rightful credit: for this one single Preston wasn't so much a guest but a Beatle in his own right.

The results of both "Get Back" and B side "Don't Let Me Down" were so encouraging that John Lennon was all for making Preston a full time member of the group. (It probably also helped that the organist was a warm and friendly fellow — in spite of some troubling demons under the surface — who eased the tension of the Fab Four's ill fated Get Back/Let It Be sessions of early 1969) And it wasn't as if he up and left the next day or anything: Preston would appear on eight Beatles' songs recorded in '69 and on no less than three of their remaining number one hits.

Still, it feels like they could have gotten a lot more out of him — and, more importantly, his presence could have rubbed off on them more as well. Preston's organ solo is about the closest The Beatles ever came to jazz, a genre they had mixed feelings about. (It's possible that their antipathy, especially when it came to the rock and roll purist Lennon, came from wishing to rebel against it as the establishment's music) With his father's background as a swing pianist/trumpeter in Merseyside's Jim Mac's Jazz Band, it is reasonable to assume that Paul McCartney was the most open minded towards improvised sounds. The bassist was also a fan of free jazz artists like Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman, the latter of whom once appeared on stage in London alongside Lennon's future wife and kindred spirit Yoko Ono. It is said that George Harrison performed a one off gig with Percy Heath and Connie Kay of the extraordinary Modern Jazz Quartet (a group who also happened to have been signed to The Beatles' Apple labe in the late sixtiesl). As for Ringo Starr, there's little doubt the others could have convinced him to go in a jazzier direction provided, of course, that drum solos would be out of the question.

This isn't to say that The Beatles should have morphed into a jazz combo, only that jazz would have been a fruitful area with which to mine for creative inspiration. 1968 saw the release of such standout albums as Miles Davis' Miles in the Sky (the title of which indicates that the Fab Four may have inspired some jazz cats; incidentally, Miles's ghostly 1974 album Get Up with It includes a track called "Billy Preston") and Filles de Kilimanjaro, Herbie Hancock's Speak Like a Child, Duke Ellington's And His Mother Called Him Bill, Roland Kirk's The Inflated Tear, McCoy Tyner's Tender Moments, Jackie McLean's New and Old Gospel and the MJQ's Under the Jasmin Tree, their first of two releases on Apple. Meanwhile, Laura Nyro was using her jazz background to craft her first album masterpiece Eli and the Thirteenth Confession. Indeed, with Joni Mitchell beginning to emerge beyond the coffeehouse folk scene and a pair of wise ass university students in Annandale, New York — Donald Fagen and Walter Becker respectively — mapping out Steely Dan, there was a future for jazzy pop. (Even Frank Zappa was doing his part with the jazz fusion release Hot Rats, released later in the year) I like to think that The Beatles could have been at the forefront of this sound rather than simply inspiring generations of dismal power pop bands. (Or let's split the difference and say they could've done both)

But enough fantasy pop for now. You know how there are songs that you sing to yourself and have stuck in your mind that never quite live up to how you imagine them when you actually listen to them? (Because I can't be the only one who has experienced this, right?) Well, "Get Back" is the opposite of them. I never like it unless I am hearing it with relatively fresh ears. If it's whirling around in my brain then it comes across as irritating. McCartney's lyrics are stupid, transphobic and even kind of racist. As with much of what The Beatles recorded in 1969, it lacks invention beyond Preston's organ part (and, to some extent, Lennon's guitar solo, another indication that they had jazz chops in them). Promoted as 'The Beatles as nature intended', it smacks of a serious regression on their part. The Fabs had already begun to retreat on the production front on much of their double album from six months earlier but this rootsy approach was an even more extreme measure.

The set up doesn't sound like much but "Get Back" is just about worth it. While minor, it's a sign that The Beatles could still do fun pop-rock even when coasting and, frankly, as their prime was passing. The Fab Five play as tight as ever and it comes across as their first hit in ages that would've gone over well in concert (although that's easy to say since it had already been performed at their infamous rooftop gig the previous January). The driving rhythm makes it almost danceable. While far from The Beatles at their very best, it is at least the sound of them enjoying being Beatles, perhaps for the very last time.

Much of what The Beatles did in '69 was, in retrospect, a soft launch for their solo careers. Lennon numbers like "Don't Let Me Down" ditched the vivid word pictures of old in favour of raw feeling, a trait he would develop fully on the John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band album in 1970. Harrison's bitterness began to recede as the influence of Bob Dylan and The Band (and maybe just a little Lennon and McCartney, even if he wouldn't have admitted it) gave warmth to his early seventies' boom period. And McCartney's love of weed pushed him towards nonsense storytelling mixed with his winning melodies, the results of which could vary from outstanding to appalling. "Get Back" doesn't fall within either extreme but at least it's a good deal closer to the former.

Score: 7

The Cowsills: "Hair"

May 12, 1969 (1 week)

Even prior to The Beatles' takeover of the United States, much of the talk surrounding the Fab Four was on their hair. A budding young singer named Billy J. Kramer saw them in the early sixties when they were still mainly a Liverpool concern and recalled their hair being "longer than what I'd ever seen in me life". American newspapermen got the idea that the foursome must have been wearing wigs. If only they could've seen into the not so distant future. As the decade progressed, everyone's hair got longer and longer — The Beatles themselves were only just able to keep up with a trend that they started.

By the time The Cowsills emerged with their breakthrough hit "The Rain, the Park and Other Things", they sported hairdos that would have rivaled The Beatles in 1964. But being a clean cut family act, they weren't really at liberty to let their locks grow out, any more than they were permitted to experiment sonically or to fool around with certain substances. Billy and Bob Cowsills' musical heroes enjoyed all sorts of freedoms that they didn't. Yet, the desire to be as free spirited as The Beatles and Dylan and The Bryds remained, albeit hidden down in the depths.

With The 5th Dimension tackling "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In", there was clearly a market for middle-of-the-road groups to take on numbers from the hit musical Hair. They did so competently, if in rather uninspired fashion, and this was to be expected. They were a polished act that was as establishment as any in pop at the time. Why not look for similarly milquetoast acts to turn numbers from the raunchy Broadway show into family-friendly pablum? The Cowsills? Sign 'em up!

As YouTuber Matt Williamson notes in a longform piece about the family act, it was the older boys who took what was meant to be a send up of the hippies seriously. Studio ringers were kept off and Billy and Bob co-produced it. If they lacked the freedom to do their creative thing then this would be the closest they'd get. Sure, the younger siblings were there to make it all cute and even Mama Cowsill was involved so there was still an element of this being just a gag. But behind this was some musical muscle and a conviction that the thing they were meant to be spoofing was exactly what they longed for.

Listening to it now, I'm rather glad that there were these poles. Had Billy and Bob taken it too seriously then it wouldn't be so engaging. Spoofing the hippies needn't be the exclusive preserve of Frank Zappa (and, in fact, The Cowsills do a far more convincing job of it). Though the rousing chorus and bridge that borrows from "The Star Spangled Banner" are there to remind everyone this is a song from a musical, much of it otherwise just sounds like a terrific pop song, the sort of thing the older boys wished to make all along. Unfortunately, "Hair" would be their one and only shot at artistic independence. It makes one wonder what they could have accomplished had been allowed to write their own songs, take a few illicit substances and, yes, let their hair down a bit.

Score: 8

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

April 28, 1969 (2 weeks)

The recent passing of Canadian singer David Clayton Thomas has been a reminder that his group Blood, Sweat and Tears were once bigger than The Beatles. Mind you, this was only the case for at most a year. Still, outselling the Fab Four even for a limited time is a tremendous feather in their cap, one that anyone would be proud to boast about.

Still, this is a claim that stretches believability. A group ought to be pretty special if they can sell more than The Beatles and yet BS&T haven't even been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. While they had three major hit singles in 1969, each one came up short of the number one spot on the Hot 100 in the United States. David Clayton Thomas was well known in his day but, quick, name three other members of the rock-soul-jazz combo. (I'll wait. I'll be here trying to name any without the aid of Wikipedia and it ought to take me a while) Yet, it seems to be true — and even it it isn't, it is a fact that they were a very big deal at this time.

Originally recorded by Brenda Holloway in 1967 on Tamla-Motown, "You've Made Me So Very Happy" had been a pleasant, if rather forgettable, soul number that for whatever reason the (largely nameless) members of BS&T thought enough of to record for their eponymous second album. The arrangement is more or less the same but with the American-Canadian nonet adding musical textures that make a previously average single pop. For his part, Thomas sings Holloway under the table: while there's nothing wrong with her sultry vocal, he goes from blue eyed soulster in the verses to gritty belter of the blues in the chorus, as if David Crosby and Joe Cocker pooled their talents. If not quite a classic, then a better-than-average chart topper in a year with more than a few dismal entries.

As I already said above, BS&T failed to reach number one down in the US but "You've Made Me So Very Happy" ended up being their first of three chart toppers on the RPM singles chart. In addition, their second album hit number one on the albums chart for a total of eight weeks (and that's with some stiff competition of the Hair soundtrack which had the top spot locked up over two months in the late spring and early summer) While it may be difficult to believe that they were bigger than The Beatles, their success in Canada gives you some idea just what a phenomenon they were — at least for a while.

~~~~~

Finally, a note on BS&T as a Canadian act. Thomas' presence was obviously crucial but there's not escaping the fact that everyone else in the band was American. Had they been a bunch of hippie draft dodgers residing in Toronto that would be one thing but the singer came to them rather than the other way around. Also, BS&T had formed prior to Thomas joining. As one news report put it following the singer's death, "A Toronto music icon has passed away. David Clayton Thomas, of the American band Blood, Sweat and Tears, has died at the age of eighty-four". Yeah, that's about right: an American group who just so happened to have a Canadian in their ranks. So, with all due respect to the now late Thomas, his outfit is precisely as Canadian as The Mamas and the Papas and The Lovin' Spoonful. Not not Canadian but not Canadian enough. Nevertheless, a warm salute to the memory of David Clayton Thomas, the Canadian who made an American band special.

Score: 7

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

April 7, 1969 (3 weeks)

And so begins the Age of Hair. This is the first of three reviews of singles taken from the hit musical. Yes, a far greater appreciation for the phenomenon of the hippie stage show can come from looking at the RPM hit parade than from Billboard's Hot 100. It's curious how such a naughty production resulted in covers by some of the most painfully mainstream acts in the business. One pulled it off more effectively than the other two but it must be said that they all did it better than what ended up on the original cast recordings. So, let's plug in the Walmart lava lamp and get started.

Joe Osborn. No, I'd never heard of him either. But this is a name that ought to be used glowingly whenever "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" is being discussed because he is easily the best thing about it. (If I'm in an especially grumpy mood, I'd even go so far as to say he's the only good thing about it)

When the Wrecking Crew is brought up (and it sure as hell gets brought up an awful lot and with good reason) there are two names that are most frequently dropped: drummer Hal Blaine and bassist Carole Kaye. They were the backbone of the LA session group, playing on The Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds" as well as dozens of Phil Spector and Bachrach-David recordings. (Even fellow WC alum and country music superstar Glen Campbell isn't mentioned anywhere near as frequently) What's easy to forget — and, indeed, be unaware of entirely — is that Hollywood's hardest working studio band had several individuals at the key positions. In addition to Blaine, they had four other drummers in their employ (all of which are notable, including Jim Keltner and Earl Palmer) as well as half-a-dozen electric bassists other than Kaye. One of them was the great Joe Osborn.

Osborn's playing has already appeared on songs that have been reviewed here, including The Mamas and the Papas' "Monday, Monday", Richard Harris' "MacArthur Park" and The 5th Dimension's previous number one hit "Up, Up and Away". But it is only with the "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" medley from Hair that his skills as a bassist really stick out. The first part of the song is showy and provides a nice spotlight for Marilyn McCoo's clear and pure vocals but is let down by being incredibly bland. Yet the bass is a steady presence in the verses and provides a sweet groove in an otherwise undistinguished chorus. At roughly the halfway mark the pace drops with a crass shift in tone to the "Let the Sunshine In" segment. Even still, Osborn more than earns his appearance fee here with a jazzy part that doesn't let up. (His Wrecking Crew colleagues were similarly up for the challenge of piecing two unrelated and unremarkable compositions together)

Otherwise, there's not much more to say. For sure this is better than "Up, Up and Away" but the bar was low so that's not saying much. I will say that to have chosen the ultra milquetoast 5th Dimension to record this selection from Hair, with its brazen use of drugs and nudity, was an interesting one. While Tom Breihan argues that the quintet managed to squeeze all the countercultural life out of it, I question whether there was all that much of it to begin with. This was a Broadway show after-all. Sure, boobs and bush and blazing up are all well and good but these are still just show tunes that weren't exactly in Sondheim's league. The flower children loved them but I think that says more about these soon-to-be-yuppies than anything else. Whatsmore, The 5th Dimension (and the Wrecking Crew, with yet another shout out to our pal Joe Osborn) managed to improve upon the ghastly Broadway recordings. This was no longer Gershwin and Porter providing Great American Songbook classics to pop stars, this was a faded cultural tradition propping up a music industry that needed better source material.

Score: 4

The Zombies: "Time of the Season"

March 31, 1969 (1 week)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Score: 8

Tommy Roe: "Dizzy"

March 24, 1969 (1 week)

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

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

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

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

Score: 4