Guess Who? (aka Chad Allan and the Expressions): "Shakin' All Over"

March 22, 1965 (3 weeks)

Up to this point there have been just four Canadian number ones on either the CHUM or RPM charts: Paul Anka's "Diana", Jack Scott's "My True Love", Richie Knight and the Mid-Nights' "Charlena" and Lorne Greene's "Ringo". Not exactly a murder's row of quality singles, is it? "Charlena" is probably the best of the lot and even it's just decent if rather forgettable. There had been a national chart in Canada for almost eight years but contributions from native acts were either ignored or weren't all that great to begin with (and, to be sure, quite a few ticked boxes under both column A and column B).

But things were slowly changing. A greater number of Canadian acts began appearing on the charts and a handful even managed to work their way into the Top 10. The changeover from the Toronto-centric CHUM to the much more national RPM also may have played a long-term role giving homegrown acts a much needed boost - though in the short-term it likely held some Ontario-based groups back. In theory, bands from, say, Charlottetown, Laval, Thunder Bay, Lethbridge and Penticton stood a chance of gaining a national following. In practice, it was mainly the bands that hailed from Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver — and Winnipeg — that stood much of a chance. (Even Calgary and Edmonton would have to wait a bit)

Coming out of Manitoba's capital was Chad Allan and the Expressions. Settling on a name would prove to be difficult - though, as it would turn out, their indecisiveness would soon prove advantageous - as they had previously been known as both Al and the Silvertones and Chad Allan and the Reflections. Previous singles released under the former failed to catch on nationally but they did well in western Canada. Then, someone had the clever idea to take their name off their latest release, mysteriously crediting it to 'Guess Who?'. The implication being that it might be The Beatles! The only problem was no one could've possibly mistaken this quintet with the Fab Four. (It was left to fellow Canadians Klaatu to be the group people supposedly mistook for the Fabs) But they could've plausibly been confused for one of those tough, bluesy Brit rock groups not unlike The Animals or The Rolling Stones

Originally a UK number one hit for Johnny Kidd and the Pirates back in 1960, "Shakin' All Over" could never quite find an audience in North America, even though its mix of blues rock and garage rock sounds about as authentically American as you can get. (No doubt a victim of American record labels not wanting to have anything to do with British bands) While Cliff Richard's "Move It" is often credited as being the first true rock and roll hit to emerge from England, "Shakin' All Over" proved to be equally important while also being a vastly superior single. That riff is still a thing to behold (it's actually astonishing to think that it came along all the way back in 1960) while Johnny Kidd's bellowing vocal has been often imitated but rarely bettered.

Yeah, about that. This cover version by Chad Allan and the Expressions is better in just about every respect. Allan's throat-shredding performance is at least the equal of Kidd's while Randy Bachman's guitar part is studied but has a rougher edge to it with a few inspired fills here and there. But the thing that really makes this one the "Shakin'..." of choice is the twinkling piano notes which you'd never think to add on to the Kidd recording but which are so essential to Allan's. Both are thrilling records but the Expressions have the upper hand in this regard too: while hearing Kidd's rendition just once would have been enough to prompt many kids to go out and buy the single, Allan's recording is effectively an advertisement for what a stunning live act they must have been. 

I often look down upon music critics and fans who wax about influential albums and bands. Sure, it's interesting but it doesn't make much of a difference in the scheme of things. I'm well-aware that The Velvet Underground remain deeply influential but how does that impact my appreciation of their music? Whether it's The Velvet Underground and Nico only selling 10,000 copies but everyone who bought it formed a band or Brothers in Arms shifting 10,000,000 copies and no one who bought it formed a band is irrelevant either way. The best thing an important work can do is inspire others by being so utterly fabulous that there's no turning back. Johnny Kidd and the Pirates did so in helping to spur British pop and then Chad Allan and the Expressions pulled off the exact same trick in Canada five years later. Canadian pop and rock would be kick started by this incredible single. Many would come along in the years ahead but bettering it would prove damn-near impossible.

Score: 10

The Beatles: "Eight Days a Week"

March 8, 1965 (2 weeks)

Two whole weeks at number one?!? Bloody hell, how did Canadian youngsters not get sick to death of this one?

There is this claim that The Beatles would refuse to release singles off of their albums. It was a policy they adhered to on the following: With the Beatles, Beatles for Sale, Rubber Soul, Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and The Beatles (aka The White Album). You will note that I did not list every Beatles' album since it was a rule they always followed except for when they didn't. LPs such as Please Please Me, A Hard Day's Night, Help!, Revolver and Abbey Road did indeed include singles. Way to stick to your principles, lads. (In fairness, it was only ever one or two singles per album; though they probably could have gotten away with it, they never came close to the obnoxious eighties' practice of six or seven 45's from one LP favoured by Michael Jackson)

Things were different over in North America where many more albums were released and where the group's influence over record company decisions didn't carry much weight. Included on Beatles for Sale in the UK at the end of 1964, "Eight Days a Week" was held off companion release Beatles '65 but its obvious commercial potential made it an easy choice for a single. (Though they probably could've chosen something better than the downbeat and relatively forgettable "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party" as its B side) Not wishing to leave it at that, it was then included on the imaginatively titled Beatles VI, released that June. Back in the UK, it would eventually join the likes of "All My Loving", "Norwegian Wood" and "Here Comes the Sun" as one of the great Fab Four singles that never were.

Taken as an album cut, "Eight Days a Week" stands out as a rare bit of levity on what is a pretty dour listening experience, especially if the six cover versions are disregarded (as indeed they should be for the most part since "Rock and Roll Music" is the only one that's any good). Beatles for Sale opens with the trio of "No Reply", "I'm a Loser" and "Baby's in Black" and we're in stunningly bleak territory, particularly coming from the Fab Four at the tail end of their biggest year. "I'll Follow the Sun" is lovely but its sorrow becomes apparent when you learn that a teenage Paul McCartney composed it following the death of his mother. "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party" is in effect tacit acknowledgement that the fun times were nearing an end. "What You're Doing" presents a relationship on the verge of collapse. "Every Little Thing" is fairly tame by comparison even if Ringo's drum part lends it a tinge of menace.

Whereas "Eight Days a Week" "capture[s] the soaring sunshine optimism of the mid-Sixties" (and this quotation is from Ian MacDonald, a music critic I love but one who was never shy of sucking the fun out of a good old-fashioned pop song). And, sure, there aren't many other songs that can put a spring in the step of even the most cynical individuals. Yet, there is another side to it. McCartney has told and retold the story of how he had a driver take him to John Lennon's place for a writing session and the cabby told him he been working "eight days a week" which instantly put a tune in Macca's head. If anyone could identify with an overworked driver it was an overworked Beatle. While little evidence of exhaustion made its way into the recording (Lennon's wail at the minute-and-a-half mark being the one exception), the underlying impression is of a group who were on the verge of burnout. Loving someone eight days a week may be bordering on obsessive while working a similar schedule is positively back-breaking.

While The Beatles had an agenda packed full of concerts, TV spots, film commitments, interviews, appearances and recording sessions, it possible that Lennon and McCartney had very little time to devote to songwriting at around this time. Another way of looking at it was that they had allowed their compositional skills to slacken. Either way, this was their second consecutive number one smash to be lyrically bland. (Lennon was said to have described the song as "lousy" probably because of the banality of the words; that said, it's likely his lifelong love of nonsense and wordplay made him appreciate the title) The Beatles being The Beatles, this was something they could overcome with their peerless melodies and overall command of pop but it couldn't go on much longer. The more lyrically adept Lennon would lead them from a band who sounded extremely good to one that also had something of substance to say.

Score: 8

Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames: "Yeh, Yeh"

March 1, 1965 (1 week)

Until recently I would have assumed that Georgie Fame is one of those individuals who was known by all in the UK but was unknown anywhere else. Not unlike, say, Malcolm Muggeridge or Delia Smith, his name didn't seem to travel beyond the British Isles. (As a longtime Anglophile I only knew of such individuals due to my teenage obsession with the Adrian Mole books) Turns out, I was dead wrong on this one. The former Clive Powell had a trio of number ones in the UK, which all topped the Canadian charts as well. (Fame seems to have been the ultimate sink or swim artist: he only had one other entry on the RPM Top 40 while he never had another Top 10 hit beyond his big three in his homeland)

So, Georgie Fame was something of a known entity in his day but was he any good? Well, the jury's still out on that one. While I fancy myself a jazz fan, I'm no purist. I admire when pop and rock acts dip their toes in improv music or jazz-influenced styles. Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro, Steely Dan: all big favourites of mine. Eighties' sophisti-pop admittedly has much to answer for but groups like The Style Council, Swing Out Sister and Matt Bianco could swing when called for. I even dig some of that so-called acid jazz from the nineties, even if little of it sounds especially jazzy — and, indeed, not all that acidic.

"Yeh, Yeh" is a throwback to mid-sixties' bossa nova as well those classy European film soundtracks of the era. It had originally appeared on the live album At Newport '63 by the vocal trio of Lambert, Hendricks and Bavan with stellar backing from tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins and flugelhornist Clark Terry. In this incarnation, it is more or less standard vocal jazz, albeit performed with customary effortless cool from one of the era's sadly forgotten groups.

Needless to say, Georgie Fame wasn't up to the task the way Dave Lambert, Joe Hendricks and Yolande Bavan were. And with all due respect, the Blue Flames were not in the same league as the likes of Hawkins or Terry. Fame sounds like he's enjoying himself but he also sounds rushed, as though the pressure was on to somehow cut a six minute jazz tune by more than half for a pop 45. That said, if one goes into it without prior knowledge of the original version of "Yeh, Yeh" then it's enjoyable enough. Nothing to get too thrilled about but acceptable all the same. If a pop star is going to do jazz then they'd better do it well but being passable will do.

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

Score: 5

The Four Seasons: "Bye, Bye, Baby (Baby Goodbye)"

February 22, 1965 (1 week)

Those rare instances in which a cover version manages to outdo the original tend to be the result of huge overhauls. Johnny Cash did so on multiple occasions on his acclaimed American albums — beginning with Glenn Danzig's "Thirteen" on American Recordings, Soudgarden's "Rusty Cage" on Unchained, Nick Cave's "The Mercy Seat" on American III: Solitary Man before culminating with the Man in Black's remarkable version of Nine Inch Nail's "Hurt" on American IV: The Man Comes Around — while the Pet Shop Boys' dance-pop take on the Elvis Presley/Willie Nelson standard "Always on My Mind" quickly became the definitive version.

There are, however, those rare occasions in which alterations are largely minor but still result in (slightly) stronger covers. "How Deep Is Your Love?" had originally been a hit for the Bee Gees, as a token slushy love song from the otherwise disco-heavy Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. Perhaps that's one of the reasons why I've never been fully convinced by the Gibb brothers' original since its so out-of-place in both the film and on its accompanying album. Plus, it's a little too soft. Not, mind you, soft in the beta male sense but just in regards to it being so light and fluffy as to be impossible to grasp on to. Take That's version from 1996 (their supposed swansong) isn't hugely different but the production is cleaner and Gary Barlow's lead vocal sounds more committed.

The same goes for The Bay City Rollers and their 1975 UK number one smash "Bye, Bye, Baby". Again, it doesn't differ a great deal from The Four Seasons' original from a decade earlier but the sound is crisper with a little more punch to it. The vocals are largely a wash which is a credit to the Tartan lads since being up to the standard of the Jersey Boys is no mean feat, even if the single in question is by no means one of their finest works. What isn't great in '65 became all right ten years later.

Following a pair of outstanding RPM number ones — "Rag Doll" and Save It for Me" respectively — "Bye, Bye, Baby (Baby Goodbye)" is a disappointment. While their run of six number ones to date hasn't been perfect ("Big Girls Don't Cry" is rather irritating, "Walk Like a Man" is solid but not as good as I remember it being), this is the first case of them hitting with something so plain and lifeless and even forgettable. (Once again, credit to The Bay City Rollers for salvaging it somewhat) I almost wish they had failed miserably rather than the sort of thing that I don't even give a shit about.

Honestly, there isn't much to say about this one. The pace is languid and I'm not so sure you even need to be aware of the Bay City Rollers' version to recognize that it needed a kick up the arse. The vocals are just your average by numbers Four Seasons' performance and perhaps one that is too much of a compromise: while Frankie Valli threatens to stretch out into one of his grandiose falsetto fits, his colleagues seem restrained from their remarkable wall of harmony. As a result, no one stands out on what is an uncharacteristically boring single.

Incidentally, the artist credit on the label stamped on the 7" disc reads as 'The Four Seasons featuring the "Sound" of Frankie Valli", a seemingly pointless re-branding. The group would gradually come to be known as 'Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons' and this appears to be a first step towards making him the kind of, sort of solo artist in his own band. I'm not a fan of these name changes: I don't care for The Wailers evolving into 'Bob Marley and the Wailers' and I'm not crazy about this one either. But before Valli could take even more of the spotlight, they were about to go with a different name altogether. The Four Seasons were soon to become The Wonder Who? (It didn't take but it was worth a try!)

Score: 4

The Kingsmen: "The Jolly Green Giant"

February 15, 1965 (1 week)

There has long been a fascination among pop music fans for one-hit wonders. They used to be derided but now it seems there's an effort to celebrate some of those who lucked out with a major hit but then failed to capitalize on it. (For more on the subject, check out YouTuber Todd in the Shadows and his excellent series One Hit Wonderland)

The Kingsmen should have been your classic one-hit wonder. They could have even ended up being the ultimate example. While they didn't write "Louie Louie", they made the definitive recording of it, one which has lasted for over sixty years.

Unfortunately, no one aspires to be a one and done hit maker. (Actually, I can think of at least one exception; we'll be getting to him and his band in a few years from now) A group has a hit and then they try for another. Record labels and management begin to get involved. A newfound fanbase becomes keen for more. This is a manageable situation if you're The Beatles or Elvis or The Supremes (and, indeed, many without such vast talents) but a more daunting challenge when there was never much to your band to begin with.

"Louie Louie" was a global smash for The Kingsmen that was followed by their cover of Barrett Strong's "Money (That's What I Want)", which also happened to be the closing track on The Beatles' second album With the Beatles. It's ramshackle enough but doesn't have the spirited, drunken party vibes of its predecessor. "Little Latin Lupe Lu" and "Death of an Angel" were minor hits for the band in 1964. By this point, the law of diminishing returns was setting in.

Perhaps out of desperation The Kingsmen chose to go with a novelty song as their fifth single. While "Louie Louie" had been this rough mix of garage rock and surf rock that critics have subsequently (and far too generously) termed "proto-punk", much of its appeal came down to it being a party anthem with those stupidly wonderful words that no one could understand. It may not have been intended as a novelty hit but that's how many took it. On "The Jolly Green Giant" it's as if they're trying too hard at what had previously been second nature to them. While "Louie Louie" had been unintentionally taken as novelty pop, there was no mistaking the way their first single of 1965 had been meant to be interpreted. The kids were expected to find this thing funny.

Suffice it to say, it isn't. Of course, this was a dozen years prior to my birth and I can't speak to how humourous youngsters found it back then but I'm going to guess that they either didn't get the gag or that it was amusing that first time anyone heard it. Boys and girls who turned up their noses at broccoli, Brussel sprouts and spinach might have found a record that spoke to them ("It was funny to me in 5th Grade, since we were all familiar with Green Giant commercials on TV", notes one YouTube comment) but it's hard to imagine how anyone else could have found anything to like in it.

It's basically just a sloppy R&B romp in which everyone is meant to be horsing around. While the tune is undistinguished, it's the "singing" that really drags it down. Gone are the casual don't-give-a-fuck vocals from "Louie Louie" which are replaced by a bunch of dweebs trying to act cool while rattling off the life story of a frozen foods mascot. Worse of all are the fill ins ("potatoes", "artichoke hearts", etc., etc.) which make it even lamer. If their signature hit proved to be a glorious example of falling upwards, this lousy single proves that they weren't about to be so lucky again. How the giants have fallen.

Score: 2

~~~~~

C'Mon, Be a CHUM!

We haven't taken a look at Canada's former national chart in a while so let's see how it's doing in the early stages of '65. With The Beatles' pairing of "I Feel Fine" and "She's a Woman" being a holdover from the end of '64, there have only been two new chart toppers so far: Petula Clark's "Downtown" and Gary Lewis and the Playboys with "This Diamond Ring", a single that had peaked at number three and was already off the RPM chart by this point. While certainly no classic, it is a definite step up from the ghastly piece of shit above. Jerry Lewis' son Gary isn't a particularly good singer though his background in comedy might have aided The Kingsmen. A rock 'n' roll 'What If...' if there ever was one.

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

February 8, 1965 (1 week)

On February 1, 1965 Petula Clark reached number one on Canada's RPM charts with "Downtown". A week later, it was nowhere to be found on the Top 40 & 5. (The same thing happened to The Righteous Brothers' "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling", the chart topper during the last week of January and the previous week's number two) As a matter of fact, fully half of that week's Top 10 had suddenly disappeared from the charts just seven days later. Was there some sort of Great Pop Purge going on in Canada during the early part of '65?

Not quite. It was during this week that a unique and rather unwelcome change was made by the people at RPM to remove singles that had begun to slip down the hit parade. It didn't matter if it had been way up at the tippity top or down with the dregs, if a 45 began to fall it was over. So, what to make of it. Well, it's jarring to discover that a song that was at number one just a week earlier could vanish so suddenly. The charts aren't supposed to work that way: a single is supposed to work its way towards a peak position then gradually fade away as it makes room for others. This isn't always the way it transpires but it was the norm, particularly during the era in which physical sales still mattered.

But there is something I like about it. Not unlike the RPM chart's frequent turnover of number ones (incidentally, the current streak of one-week wonders is at ten; Elvis' "Ain't That Lovin' You Baby" all the way back in November of '64 was the last time a Canadian chart topper had spent at least a fortnight on top), I think this trend reflects the way young people consumed music back then. A single can be your favourite one week and then be dead to the listener the next. As someone who was geeky enough have his own version of the chart in his teens, I know full well how quickly a beloved single can drift from us. (Typically, a song would occupy the number one spot on Paul's Chart for however long it took, then it would drop down to number two or three and then be forgotten about entirely)

Ushering in this new phase of Canada's national chart is Jay and the Americans with "Let's Lock the Door (and Throw Away the Key)". While falling just short of the Top 10 down south, it continued the group's hot streak north of the border. While the solid if unspectacular "Come a Little Bit Closer" would go on to become their best remembered hit — along with yet another future Canadian number one that we'll be getting to before long — it doesn't approach the spectacularly unoriginal enthusiasm of "Let's Lock the Door".

Wait, 'spectacularly unoriginal enthusiasm'? This Jay and the Americans single is supposed to be better for how much it borrows from the work of others? Yes, exactly. By shoving The Beatles, Beach Boys, Four Seasons and the burgeoning Motown sound together, America's third greatest vocal group of the mid-sixties managed to just about sound like no one else. The copying is so brazen that even someone with as dead an ear as myself can hear all the influences being crammed in.

The Beach Boys and Four Seasons are the most readily apparent. Those towering Jersey Boys' harmonies are the backbone of "Let's Lock the Door" while the jazz scatting and Mike Love-esque baritone drop ins in the chorus are clearly nicked from the Wilson's over on the West Coast. Then the bridge comes in which pays an obvious debt to The Beatles' version of "Twist and Shout". Finally, there are those horns which might as well have been sampled from the Funk Brothers, Motown's highly accomplished if rarely acknowledged secret weapon. Add to the mixture some of their patented Latino rhythms and you've got a Frankenstein's monster of pop.

This all should be a huge mark against Jay and the Americans but they make it work. There's a certain genius in borrowing so liberally from a variety of sources and not failing miserably in doing so. In fact, "Let's Lock the Door" is two minutes and twenty seconds of glorious pop that any of their artistic superiors would have been proud to have released themselves. Though 1965 was becoming increasingly a place for insanely creative to thrive, it's nice to know that those more modestly talented types could keep pace — even if only fleetingly.

Score: 9

~~~~~

Can Con

It's been fun tracking the progress of US immigrant Ronnie Hawkins on Canada's charts but this looks to be mostly coming to an end. More famous for a catchy if unremarkable recording by The Beach Boys, "Bluebirds Over the Mountain" is a surprising choice from the barrelhouse southern rocker. Not really the best use of his talents but it's all right all things considered. The swampy "Diddley Diddley Daddy" on the flip is the stronger song though it may not have had the commercial potential. A decent final Top 10 hit for the national treasure, (Though credited as 'Ronnie Hawkins and The Hawks' the accompanying band isn't that of Robbie Robertson, Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson and Richard Manuel, who had already departed and were soon to sign on as Bob Dylan's backing band. I hope they didn't begrudge him keeping their name)

Petula Clark: "Downtown"

February 1, 1965 (1 week)

By the early part of December 1988 I had watched around a dozen episodes of Top of the Pops. No great total, I know, but I had only been in the UK since that August and I wasn't to know about Britain's favourite music show until starting school the following month. Though the late eighties had become awash in teen pop, TOTP in that era had its share of veteran performers. Phil Collins appeared on the first episode I recall watching, miming at a piano to "A Groovy Kind of Love" which also happened to be occupying the number one spot. It was followed by The Hollies and a reissue of their classic "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother". By December, the Christmas Number One race was supposed to be on but it sort of stalled when Cliff Richard's yuletide fave "Mistletoe and Wine" rather annoyingly took first place and refused to cede its position. Not only were the elderly appearing on TOTP but they were doing so while at number one.

Though not a chart topper, one of the other hits I can recall being performed by a pop music vet was "Downtown '88" by Petula Clark. Even alongside the likes of Collins and Richard she looked ancient. She looked like my grandmothers back home. She looked like Mrs. Vine, my geography teacher who chain smoked and who we nicknamed 'Chimney Pot'. She looked like those British women who hosted dating and light entertainment shows back then (with catchphrases like "Press your buttons now!") only that much older. My mum knew "Downtown" and informed that it had been popular when she was in school. What she neglected to mention was that Petula Clark was getting up there even back in her day.

I just turned forty-eight this past week so I suppose I'm one to talk but being thirty-two years old in the midst of mid-sixties' pop might as well have been the grandmotherly figure Clark cut nearly a half-century later on TOTP. But not only did she look like she was more than ten years older than Paul McCartney but she also sounded like a throwback. It was as if she had been Julie Andrews' less talented, less charismatic older sister who had finally caught a break. This perception wasn't entirely accurate since she had been a well known figure in the UK and most of western Europe. She had even reached number one back in Britain in 1961 with her English language version of "Salior", a CHUM chart topper for Austrian singer Lolita. Her fortunes had been rather up and down over the years but success in North America proved elusive until the British Invasion took off and she became one of its unlikeliest stars.

"Downtown" was the work of British songwriter Tony Hatch who would go on to co-compose such memorable TV theme songs as Crossroads and Neighbours (though not, much to my surprise, the wonderful tune to Eastenders). Prior to finding his real calling, however, he made a living at pop and had forged a thriving producer-singer relationship with Petula Clark going all the way back to "Sailor". By 1964 they must have felt that having a hit on Billboard's Hot 100 was simply not in the cards. Cliff Richard had only barely managed to crack the US charts and he was considerably younger than Clark. The arrival of The Beatles only managed to expose how out-of-date their predecessors were, the cheery, multilingual Petula Clark being among them.

Yet, few seemed to care that "Downtown" was such a throwback. The vast majority of people probably didn't even notice. In fact, its very nature as an old fashioned pop song works in its favour. It could easily be from one of the "movie shows" or from a Broadway musical that are implicitly being celebrated. "Ah, but Broadway is in Midtown," some of you more knowledgeable types may be saying but that's not remotely the point. New Yorkers may know about Downtown and Uptown and the area in between but the rest of us can only speculate. It is the thrill of possibly one day visiting the Big Apple that "Downtown" celebrates. The seedy part of Manhattan? It's nowhere to be found. (Prefab Sprout's "Hey Manhattan", off their great 1988 album From Langley Park to Memphis, does a far better job mixing the city's glamour with its sleaziness)

While I like the idea of romanticizing NYC, "Downtown" isn't an entirely successful attempt at doing so. Perhaps my knowledge of Clark's "advancing" age ruins it as I can't get passed wishing it had been sung by someone far younger. Tony Hatch's future career in UK and Aussie soap theme tunes creeps in as the chorus has the ring of the opening music to an American sit com about a newly independent — and, possibly, divorced — youngish woman arriving in the Big City to make it on her own, like if The Mary Tyler Moore Show had been set in a more glamorous town than Minneapolis. (Like Denver, perhaps?) Not to mention, who actually finds the downtown area of a major city to be a place where you go to avoid loneliness? I tend to gravitate towards big cities but I am under no apprehension just how alienating and soul-sucking they can be. The song itself may be harmless fun but it does little alleviate the shittiness of being alone in a giant megalopolis.

Score: 5

The Righteous Brothers: "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling"

January 25, 1965 (1 week)

I've been down on Phil Spector in this space so far and with good reason. Long before he killed anyone I was skeptical of him. A little of that patented Wall of Sound was always something that could go a long way. (I still can't get the whole way through his overrated Christmas album) Plus — and, again, murder aside — he was a colossal douchebag. The man didn't give a shit about getting the best out of the artists he was working with; rather, he figured that he was the artist and the musicians and vocalists were his tools. Jesus, just writing this is making me furious.

Spector makes for an interesting comparison with George Martin who happened to be the (sort of) subject of the last entry here. While the former desired everyone cater to his whims as a sensitive "artiste", the latter gave his skills over to the acts he oversaw. As it happened, the well-spoken gentlemanly Englishman wasn't able to get all that much good out of producing Gerry and the Pacemakers proving that a producer is only as good as the people they're producing. Which brings us to Phil Spector helming the record of a lifetime with a skilled vocal duo, some of the finest studio musicians around and a first rate composition. He may have tried to make everything about himself but he was but one of many factors as to why "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" is so remarkable.

The song opens with the tall, dark Righteous Brother, Bill Medley, delivering one of pop's most unforgettable lines: "you never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips". (Bill must've had his own eyes open since how else would he have known? What if she had been thinking the exact same thing?) Even with his distinctive rumbling baritone it sounds like he's been slowed down a notch or two, a studio trick that Spector would have been familiar with. Though clearly a duo, this is effectively a solo performance which didn't please partner Bobby Hatfield too much. (The fact that he got the bulk of the singing duties for follow up "Unchained Melody" probably dulled his bitterness considerably) 

For what is basically an over-the-top lovesick lament, the lyrics on the whole are superb. Not deep or especially profound but they do convey that bleak, empty feeling when love turns sour. There's nothing in the way of self-reflection (as I said above, everything wrong with this relationship is down to her) which I think makes this a very distinctly male song of heartbreak. The hopefulness of it's conclusion — 'bring back that lovin' feeling' having replaced 'you've lost that...' — is somewhat tempered by the implication that the guy in this pairing isn't going to do a damn thing to try to salvage it. (To be fair, he probably never did the dishes either so why should he be expected to lift a finger now?)

As always, Spector packed a great deal into his arrangement but, thankfully, the bulk of it is kept to the background and, crucially, is at the service of the overall recording. It's as if for once in his life Spector managed to come to the realization that not everything is about him. You scarcely even notice the Wall of Sound, which is something I wish he had done more often. In a way his real kindred spirit in the world of sonic production was Lee "Scratch" Perry, an individual who also left his fingerprints all over the recordings he worked on. The artists were replaceable; they were the ones that mattered in their minds. But just as a stopped clock is right twice a day, a production wizard with an overinflated sense of self-importance can still occasionally put out some terrific music.

Apparently, "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" has been ruined for some. It's supposedly memorable use in eighties picture Top Gun seemed to close the lid on virtually anyone from Generation X ever being able to listen to it again. Luckily for me, I'm much more of a music guy than a film buff and I can barely remember that stupid movie. (No doubt my contemporaries will have a far warmer association with the use of "Unchained Melody" in 1990's Ghost, a film I've never even seen) Plus, it is said to have been the most played song on American radio over the course of the entire twentieth century so there's always the chance a few people have grown sick to death of it over the years. Only a great song could withstand all that; fortunately, that's exactly what this is.

Score: 9

Gerry and the Pacemakers: "I'll Be There"

January 18, 1965 (1 week)

Ever gentlemanly and modest, producer George Martin refuted claims on the part of critics that he did the bulk of the heavy lifting when it came to Beatles' recordings. He saw his role as that of a translator, a classically trained musician who took the Fab Four's creative ideas and helped mold them into some of the most extraordinary music ever committed to tape. He was there to assist these talented but unlettered individuals but the craft, Martin maintained, was all theirs.

The wags were wrong and, in truth, it didn't take the polite but firm voice of George Martin to disprove them. All one really had to do was to take a listen to the other groups that he produced to see that the magic was only coming from one corner. The Beatles had the curiosity, humour and talent to be a perfect fit for Martin; the rest of his charges were just there for him to make the best of what they had - and the bulk of them didn't have all that much.

Bobby Darin's "I'll Be There" is a composition that never really found a home — and, perhaps, deservedly so. The Latin Lover tossed it off as the B side to his Top 20 arrangement of the standard "(Won't You Come Home) Bill Bailey" and it languished there. Darin would have made a few extra bucks from having one of his compositions on the flip side of a stronger song but that was that.

Though Darin's "Bill Bailey" had been only a minor hit in the UK, there is another explanation as to how Gerry and the Pacemakers would have come across it in the early sixties. As many from Merseyside have told it over the years, Liverpool sailors and merchant seamen would return from the United States with bundles of records. For whatever reason, they refused to keep or sell the bulk of them and instead just handed them out to the local urchins. (I picture them descending the gangway and throwing these prized 7" and 12" items like frisbees to the youngsters who'd come to greet them) While a young John Lennon or Paul McCartney managed to get their hands on something like Larry Williams' "Bony Maronie" or Barrett Strong's "Money" by this (dubious) method, lovable lad Gerry Marsden had to make do with Bobby Darin — and not one of his good songs like "Mack the Knife".

The Pacemakers soon made it a part of their setlist, often closing out shows at the Cavern. Familiarity, however, did little to improve it. While Lennon and McCartney, as well as an emergent George Harrison, were keeping The Beatles afloat in originals, Marsden hadn't quite mastered the self-sufficiency route. They had already gone through those idiotic Mitch Murray numbers as well as their own spin on "You'll Never Walk Alone" (bloody hell, they couldn't have been a more cliched bunch of Scousers, could they?). "I'm the One" had been an acceptable Marsden-composed hit but the group still had to rely mainly on the work of others.

While I don't think much of "I'll Be There" as a composition, the Pacemakers only manage to make it worse — and, whatsmore, George Martin doesn't even do much to help matters. When Marsden yelped along with a frivolous little piece like "How Do You Do It" with plucky charm, he didn't possess the vocal chops for a lush ballad, even if it isn't an especially effective one. Perhaps due in part to the singer's lack of vocal prowess and warmth, Martin chose to swamp the recording with a sickly string arrangement. By this point in The Beatles' extraordinary run, he had given their roughhouse sound a professional sheen with contributions that accentuated with talents; with the Pacemakers it was more a case of a layering of gloop in order to cover up what a nondescript band he was working with.

The one bright side is that it is perhaps due to Gerry and the Pacemakers that someone was finally able to make the most out of a very average song a few years later. Tried out during the sessions for From Elvis in Memphis, it was kept off (in favour of, quite honestly, far better material) and kept on ice until budget release Let's Be Friends in '71. Like Bobby Darin (and unlike Gerry Marsden), Elvis Presley was an accomplished vocalist who had been on something of a creative hot streak ever since his 1968 Comeback Special so he was in a prime position to make something reasonable out of nothing special.

Score: 3

The Supremes: "Come See About Me"

January 11, 1965 (1 week)

"That's the first record to start with a fade in, before The Beatles, before Talking Heads, before any fucker..."

— Diana Ross (possibly)

We tend to assume that the innovations made in music are the product of creative types unconcerned about commercial pressures. Well, I tend to make this assumption at any rate. By the end of 1964, The Beatles were already making the most of having virtually unlimited time for recording at Abbey Road Studios. While they had many ideas they wished to explore, they were also fortunate enough to utilize accidents that befell them. The feedback on "I Feel Fine" came from leaving a guitar propped up against Paul McCartney's bass amp just as he was playing it. The result was a sound they'd never heard before which was reason enough to include it.

And yet, "Come See About Me" starts with a fade in, which the Fab Four wouldn't attempt for another few months, on a single by The Supremes. Played by famed Motown house band The Funk Brothers. Recorded at Hitsville, USA. Not quite where we'd imagine the studio boffins to be at work on some zany sonic experiments. (That said, Motown's original recording facility in Detroit had more in common with Abbey Road than the state-of-the-art setups in LA and New York. These two, along with smaller, often makeshift studios in Memphis, Tennessee or Bearsville, New York or Kingston, Jamaica tended to be more the home for innovation than the glossy and slick mainstream locales)

Not unlike "I Feel Fine", "Come See About Me" has its startling opening before settling into the comfiness of pop music warmth. If anything, The Supremes do so far more effectively than The Beatles in this instance. For while their fifth Canadian number one represents the Fabs settling into a more-of-the-same routine (something they would promptly abandon), this key track from Diana Ross, Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson shows them just getting the swing of this pop lark.

"Where Did Our Love Go?" and "Baby Love" are both outstanding but in a bubble they're just a pair of singles that, frankly, just about anyone could've had a hit with. "Come See About Me" is the first one that could have only been done by The Supremes, as if the writing team of Holland/Dozier/Holland had begun tailoring their material around them. It is, therefore, rather jarring to hear Nella Dodds' version from right around the same time. (Her rendition predated The Supremes on the charts only for it to be usurped) With all due respect to her languid delivery, it just sounds wrong. Dodds steers into its melancholy while Ross acts above it. The Funk Brothers give a relaxed performance, almost as if they were just working it out in the studio, which doesn't quite measure up to the swinging cool they give off when backing The Supremes.

The one real knock against it is that this turning point for the group also became the very thing that would conspire to hold them back. Yes, The Supremes released numerous sublime singles over the remainder of the sixties (not to mention a few pretty good ones in the seventies) but they never kept moving forward. Motown's window was only open to innovation for a brief period. Much as I love a lot of their stuff, they couldn't quite get into that upper tier where The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding all resided. Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder had to instigate power plays on Motown in order to wrest control and rise to that vaunted place; Ross had to be on an entirely different label for her to get there. As great as "Come See About Me" is, I just wish it had been the start of creative explosion, not a place for them to just happily do more of the same.

Score: 9

~~~~~

Can Con

Coming in as an EXTRA — caps not mine — on RPM's Top 40 & 5 (I think that's called a Top 45) is the Vancouver-born Ray Griff, a country/rockabilly singer, who, not unlike recent Can Con alum Joe Popiel, lived much of his life in my hometown of Calgary. Apparently he was once even a regular at the semi-legendary country roadhouse pub Ranchman's. (I've never been there but I've heard some stories) "That Weepin' Willow Tree" is brisk and has some old fashioned country-gospel underpinning its rock 'n' roll swagger. Griff doesn't hold back which is a perfectly fine choice though I have to wonder if too much of him could leave audiences wanting a lot less. It is, however, a welcome reminder of just how fantastic Elvis used to be. Not exactly my sort of thing but good for what it is.

Little Anthony and the Imperials: "Goin' Out of My Head"

January 4, 1965 (1 week)

"The group was one of the few doo-wop groups to enjoy sustained success on the R&B and pop charts throughout the 1960s."

(It's no longer weird to quote Wikipedia, is it?)

If by "sustained success" they're referring to a group that had a big hit, faded away, returned a few years later for some more chart action before going back to relative obscurity then, yes, Little Anthony and the Imperials did enjoy sustained success. It wasn't quite sustained to the extent of The Rolling Stones or Madonna but they did all right for themselves all the same.

Little Anthony and the Imperials (fun fact: they are the first of two groups to make it to number one in 1965 to use a name that recalls antiquity) first hit it big with the single that they are still best remembered for, "Tears on My Pillow". Like a lot of doo-wop, it's good for what it is but nevertheless unable to disguise just how lightweight it is. Though not as big a hit, 1959's "Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko-Bop" is more engaging and a better example of their harmonic prowess. Not much happened after its Top 30 showing in the US until over four years later when "I'm on the Outside (Looking In)" gave them the first of five straight hits. None charted better nor sounded quite as good as "Goin' Out of My Head".

An important thing to consider about the vocal groups who managed to last or make a comeback or two is that just about anything could accompany the singing they did. Doo-wop and soul were malleable enough to be able to work around Sinatra-esque orchestral pop or even trendy British beat music, vocal harmony groups from Jamaica made a similarly effortless transition to reggae, ska and dance hall at around the same time. The Isley Brothers proved to be masters of changing with the times and Little Anthony and the Imperials may have had a similar approach.

Not that you'd hear much of a radical musical shift on "Goin' Out of My Head". Rather, its production is what makes it stand out from the pack. Though there's more than a little Wall of Sound, Phil Spector couldn't have improved on the ghostly fog that makes it such a compelling but unsettling listen. Jerome "Little Anthony" Gourdine's trademark falsetto is present and correct but it sounds all the more intriguing swamped in this soupy haze. Songs about madness tend to dizzingly smash elements together in a sonic boom of craziness but here we're treated to a looming paranoia.

With the group's immaculate vocal work, fans quickly took to "Goin' Out of My Head" which became their first Top 10 hit in the United States since "Tears on My Pillow". Up in Canada, it pulled off a single week at number one. Staying at the top spot for any longer would've been difficult enough but the creepiness of the recording couldn't have helped. Not that this is a bad thing: what makes the first chart topper of 1965 so compelling is its dark heart. This isn't the place you'd expect a fifties' doo-wop group to go but it's where they ended up. Something of a minor masterpiece.

Score: 8

~~~~~

Can Con

Described as Canada's answer to Buddy Holly, Joe Popiel's "I Can't Live Without You" was a Top 40 hit on the RPM chart in the early part of 1965. While the singer had roots in early rock and roll, this effort sounds like he'd been paying close attention to The Beatles, a band who owed more than a little themselves to Lubbock, Texas' favourite son. Though it seemed to perform better in some local markets, its peak position of thirty-five is promising enough for a debut but with a stronger promotional push it could have faired a whole lot better. Good stuff and it suggests that he would have been a tremendous live act to have caught. (NB: I couldn't find the actual full recording of "I Can't Live Without You" but a snippet of it is included in a loving tribute to the late singer put together by his sons. While it's a shame he couldn't have become a bigger star, it's nice to hear that he lived a full and happy life)

1964: Will I Joke Around and Still Dig Those Sounds?

 9 — The Beatles: "She Loves You"

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

10 — The Beatles: "All My Loving" / "This Boy"

 3 — The Dave Clark Five: "Bits and Pieces"

 5 — Gerry and the Pacemakers: "I'm the One"

 5 — Peter and Gordon: "World Without Love"

 7 — The Dixie Cups: "Chapel of Love"

 7 — The Beach Boys: "I Get Around"

 5 — Johnny Rivers: "Memphis"

 9 — The Four Seasons: "Rag Doll"

 8 — Jan and Dean: "The Little Old Lady (from Pasadena)"

 9 — The Beatles: "A Hard Day's Night"

 9 — The Supremes: "Where Did Our Love Go"

 7 — The Animals: "The House of the Rising Sun"

 1 — The Newbeats: "Bread and Butter"

 9 — The Four Seasons: "Save It for Me"

 8 — Roy Orbison: "Oh, Pretty Woman"

 4 — Manfred Mann: "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy"

 9 — The Beach Boys: "When I Grow Up (To Be a Man)"

 8 — The Honeycombs: "Have I the Right"

 5 — Elvis Presley: "Ain't That Lovin' You, Baby"

 6 — Jay and the Americans: "Come a Little Bit Closer"

 3 — Lorne Greene: "Ringo"

 4 — Bobby Vinton: "Mr. Lonely"

 8 — Sandie Shaw: "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me"

 7 — The Beatles: "I Feel Fine"

Prior to 1964, a grand total of twenty-nine Canadian number ones had received a score of eight or higher from me: there were three 10's, ten 9's and sixteen 8's. But now these numbers have spiked considerably. No less than twelve chart toppers managed to get a score of eight or higher with six getting a nine and one more receiving top marks. As a result, the average score is a (seemingly) unbeatable 6.65.

Yes, '64 was a pretty great year for pop music. The obvious factor is The Beatles and their four brilliant hits - plus one more that's still above average. But they are hardly alone. This was also the year that both The Beach Boys and The Supremes had their first number one hits as well as perhaps The Four Seasons at peak of their powers. Roy Orbison had maybe his most memorable hit while Jan and Dean pulled off a lightweight but still surprisingly potent single. The Honeycombs and Sandie Shaw (and, to a slightly lesser extent, The Animals) proved that there was more to the British Invasion than John, Paul, George and Ringo. The good significantly outweighs the bad.

Aside from the overall high quality, the other significant factor this year is the fact that twenty-six singles topped the Canadian charts in '64, by far the most up to now. And when I say "up to now" I have good reason for doing so since there will be forty-four in '65 for me to cover. Yes, the transition from the CHUM charts over to RPM becomes increasingly stark with just seven entries over the entire year spending more than just a single week at the top. Yes, I imagine it'll take me a while to get through all of them.

On the other hand, there will be several outstanding entries to look forward to. The Beatles, of course, are going to be back and they will be joined by many of their fellow Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductees. Still, the lack of Motown beyond The Supremes is still glaring and there are a few duds sure to come as well. While I may hate having to listen to pieces of shit like The Newbeats' "Bread and Butter", they can sometimes be fun to write about. I would say it helps bring out my inner grumpy old man but he's typically not one to hide himself away.

The Beatles: "I Feel Fine"

December 28, 1964 (1 week)

By now The Beatles were being graded on a curve. Their impeccable standards had resulted in a string on fantastic singles and three outstanding studio albums, each of which had been an upgrade on their predecessors, but there were fears that they were beginning to slip a bit. The weary looks on their faces on the cover of their fourth LP Beatles for Sale (along with John Lennon appearing to be rather plump) gave critics and listeners this idea that its contents sounded equally exhausted. This is true up to a certain point: they trudged their way through a series of dismal cover versions — aside from an absolutely blistering "Rock and Roll Music" — and there's a new found pessimism at the heart of originals such as "No Reply", "I'm a Loser" and "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party" but there's still plenty of joie de vivre as well; "Eight Days a Week" opens side 2 and it's one of The Beatles' breeziest, most carefree numbers.

More worrisome than their alleged gloominess was that they didn't appear to be improving anymore. A Hard Day's Night had been made up of all Lennon-McCartney compositions and tracks like "Things We Said Today" and "I'll Be Back" indicated that they were on the verge of a major artistic breakthrough. Hints of this would appear on Beatles for Sale but they would be overshadowed by some of the more average material. Their creative flowering would take place but it would end up being delayed as this mild wilderness period that would carry over into the middle of 1965.

Recorded during the Beatles for Sale sessions (which goes some way towards explaining why it doesn't sound out of place on its American counterpart release Beatles '65), "I Feel Fine" sounds in retrospect like the final gasp of Beatlemania as the Fab Four searched for a way forward. The distinctive feedback in its opening seconds and those aggressive, clipped guitars hint at what was to come while some of John Lennon's laziest lyrics ("that her baby buys her things you know, he buys her diamond rings you know..."; not to be outdone, Paul McCartney farted out some equally banal words on its B side "She's a Woman"; both sides of their latest single suggest that Lennon and McCartney were making strides musically while treading water lyrically) confirm that he was phoning it in for the first (though, sadly, not the last) time in his career.

But why exactly? As I mentioned above, he was becoming increasingly comfortable with expressing his inner turmoil while at the same time there may no longer have been a muse for his often overlooked happy-go-lucky pop side (while this is typically considered to be more McCartney's realm, Lennon wrote the bulk of such buoyant classics as "Please Please Me", "It Won't Be Long" and "Any Time at All" proving he could do pure pop just as well as his partner). Living outside of London with his wife and young child, his social life began to take a hit as he began feeling increasingly isolated. He was smoking a lot of pot, he had an ocean of alcohol at his disposal and there were individuals in The Beatles' orbit who had harder drugs for him to sample, either willingly or otherwise. This fueled what would prove to be a stellar run of compositions from the early part of 1965 through the next two years (I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that everything he wrote or co-wrote from "Ticket to Ride" to "I Am the Walrus" represents the greatest hot streak in pop history). Conversely, was he a contented person during this time? How joyful could the man who had just put out "I'm a Lose" — and who was soon to write both "Help!" and "Nowhere Man" — be?

In fact, there's a misery to "I Feel Fine" that few think to discuss. She's in love with him and he feels fine? Well, good for them, I suppose, but his choice of words could be more convincing. When people ask me how I'm doing, I respond with "fine" when I'm not feeling particularly lousy. When thing are okay. When I'm in a good mood I'll actually say so. So, Lennon's life is okay but it could be better all things considered. The guy was leader of the biggest band in the world and was making money hand over fist from both all those lucrative songwriting royalties as well as those increasingly burdensome tours they were embarking on. He had the world at his feet and all he could say about it was that he was "fine".

Not unlike "I Feel Fine" itself. While perhaps a slight let down next to their immaculate singles from 1963 and '64, it's nevertheless filled with energy and, not unlike "Eight Days a Week", it betrays this notion that The Beatles were as exhausted as they appeared to be on the cover of their most recent album. Yes, John Lennon began to look inward but he could still knock out a better-than-average pop hit without a whole lot of effort — even when he wasn't in especially joyful mood. It's just that he was capable of a whole lot more. Luckily, he would spend much of the following year proving it. 

Score: 7

Sandie Shaw: "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me"

December 21, 1964 (1 week)

BRACKETEERING: Pop's Most (Pointless) Parentheses

"(I'm Always Touched by Your) Presence, Dear"

Brackets are often used to add a sense of brevity to lengthy song titles. Still, the part that is free from punctuation ought to be able to exist on its own. With that in mind, has anyone ever referred to Blondie's second UK Top 10 hit simply as "Presence, Dear"? No, no one ever has. Why the hell would they?

"So You Want to Be (A Rock and Roll Star)"

Patti "Only 10,000 people bought the Horses album but everyone who did went on to write cranky record reviews for weekly hipster papers" Smith covered The Byrds' classic but then someone had the bright idea to add a superfluous set of brackets round a very key part of the title. I suspect it was Smith herself who was behind it as a means of downplaying rock stardom, which is an easy thing to do when you've never achieved it yourself.

"The Beat(en) Generation"

Placing a set of brackets within a word must've made The The's Matt Johnson feel like he'd done something clever. Dead clever. He didn't and it's not.

"(Everything I Do) I Do It for You"

It is far from the only thing wrong with Bryan Adams' biggest hit but placing the brackets around the part of the title everyone remembers is a botch. Had he swapped the punctuation around, this smash from Kevin Costner's Robin Hood would have been (slightly) less irritating. though it wouldn't have saved what is a very grim song. (Fourteen year old me would have disrespectfully disagreed but what did that gawky loser know?)

(What's the Story) Morning Glory?

Album titles that utilize parentheses are a rarity — unless you happen to be a Rolling Stones' compilation. Is it any wonder Noel Gallagher penned lines like "slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannon ball" when he couldn't even give his biggest selling long player a decent title. His nibs has been questioned about a great deal over the years but let me add a contribution of my own: first, what purpose do the brackets serve and, second, did you ever notice that the question mark also gets dropped whenever it's simply referred to as 'Morning Glory': what's up with that?

"Make Me Smile (Come Up and See Me)"

The chorus to this magnificent 1975 UK number one goes "come up and see me, make me smile". Quite why the late Steve Harley chose to reverse it is anyone's guess since all he ever said about his signature hit was how it was all about how the first incarnation of the group Cockney Rebel had quit on him. Like many parenthetical songs, the part of the title everyone seems to remember is stuck in punctuational purgatory.

"(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me"

The British didn't bother with the bracketed bit and who could blame them? It would be just fine as either "There's Always..." or simply "Always..." but the parentheses are distracting and serve no earthly purpose. Just look at this particular blog entry: I could have written one of my usual reviews of five or six paragraphs expanding on one of my half-baked pop music notions. Like the fact that Sandie Shaw's trademark was performing barefoot. Or that she ended up getting shafted in the United States at precisely the same time in which less talented men with British accents were being gifted with record contracts and number one hits. Or that she would somehow go on to become this symbol of sixties' cool long before the members of St Etienne began dictating how much we should be in the thrall of the likes of Françoise Hardy and Sérgio Mendes. I've wasted the one Canadian number one of Shaw's career on a what is in effect a magazine sidebar. Oh well, I ought to just (get a) Grip (on myself).

Score: 8

Bobby Vinton: "Mr. Lonely"

December 14, 1964 (1 week)

This blog recently published its eighteenth review of one of Elvis Presley's number one hits in Canada. (Luckily, there aren't too many more left to cover) I hope I didn't repeat myself too often though the fact that I'm reluctant to go back to re-read all of them suggests that I'd rather not find out. Yet, I've expressed some views and notions that may or may not be of interest to people out there which is more than can be said for what I have to say about Bobby bloody Vinton.

I mean, what more is there to say about the Polish Prince? Well, I suppose I could say that his songs all sound the same but is that even the case? "Blue Velvet" has a dark heart to it which was probably why it found its way into a David Lynch film back in the eighties but "Mr. Lonely" has no such hidden depths. It's just a twenty-nine year old man boy pining for someone to reach out to him so he will not be so lonely.

They aren't quite the same but there's no indication that Vinton was trying to push on through creatively the way many of those who had wreaked havoc on the music scene in 1964 were doing. We may now adjudicate future singles and/or albums as the "turning point" for The Beatles ("Yesterday", Rubber Soul, Revolver, "Strawberry Fields Forever") The Beach Boys ("California Girls", Pet Sounds, "Good Vibrations"), Bob Dylan ("Subterranean Homesick Blues", "Like a Rolling Stone", Highway 61 Revisited) and so forth but their activities throughout a year in which they were all still finding their way indicate that they were never content to stand still. Not so with Vinton: he managed to have yet another number one smash without even bothering to record anything.

"Mr. Lonely" had been written back in the fifties and was cut just as he was set to achieve stardom with breakthrough hit "Roses Are Red (My Love)", a single I blogged about less than four months ago but which I cannot recall except that I'm quite sure it sounds like a Bobby Vinton song. He pushed for its release but his record company vetoed it, though it was included on his debut solo album Roses Are Red. Struggling to fill out a largely unnecessary greatest hits album, the singer pressed for "Mr. Lonely" which proved to be so popular that it returned him to the top of the Hot 100.

The results can be best described as "a song". Not revolting by any stretch of the imagination but just another Vinton turn about heartbreak and feeling sorry for himself. There are certainly worse things in the world — some of which happened to also go to number one in Canada — but the idea of listening to something like this for pleasure just doesn't compute. And not just for pleasure but for pop music therapy: Vinton wallows in misery but offers little by way of guiding young fans along in order to find hope or a way out. It's musical junk food masquerading as protein-rich chana masala.

Oh, and what do you know, another Bobby Vinton song is on the horizon in 1965. Whatever am I going to find to say about it that I haven't already written? But, hey, if the Polish Prince was content to repeat himself then why should I be any different?

Score: 4

~~~~~

Can Con

He did one of the all-time great celebrity guest spots on Imperial period Simpsons ("You're manager says for you to shut up!" is a line that lives rent free in my head) and that alone should justify Robert Goulet's lengthy career in music — and it certainly does far more for his legacy than "My Love, Forgive Me (Amore, Scusami)", a modest number twenty-two hit. I'm indifferent towards "Mr. Lonely" but the same cannot be said for this turgid crap. Honestly, Goulet is probably the best thing about it seeing as how the composition is littered with cliches and the arrangement is a tasteless mess. His voice is a little too perfect but at least he doesn't make me want to throw up my nachos and beer. He did far better with the classic "Jingle Bells, Batman smells...".