The Cyrkle: "Red Rubber Ball"

July 11, 1966 (1 week)

In terms of rock 'n' roll 'what if's', it isn't discussed the way other examples are — like what if weather conditions had been more favourable the night of Buddy Holly's fateful flight or what if the members of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young had been able to get along or what if Bruce Springsteen had somehow never passed his driving test — but it's fascinating to consider the following: what if Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" hadn't become an out-of-the-blue hit after initially failing?

On the surface, this may not seem all that compelling but the implications are huge. It would have meant that S&G's debut album Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M. would have remained an obscurity, the duo probably never gets back together and Paul Simon ends up remaining in the UK. The singer-songwriter has spoken positively about his time in Britain. He learned about English folk music guitar techniques, he met some of the leading British artists and wrote some of his best-known songs ("Homeward Bound", "I Am a Rock") while over there. He could've easily stayed for an extended period of time, perhaps even for good. This, then, leads to further follow-up what if's such as: what if he had formed a duo with, say, Gilbert O'Sullivan or Cat Stevens, what if he became the bard for the bustling, multi-ethnic London instead of New York City and what if he ended up marrying Sandy Denny, Helen Mirren and Miss Larkin, my world history teacher at Mayflower Comprehensive in Billericay, Essex. So much to ponder.

While it's impossible to say how an extended stay in England would've worked out for him (even though I am certain that he and Miss Larkin would've been a good match) "Red Rubber Ball" gives some indication as to how at least one part of his career would have panned out. Even if Paul Simon's recording prospects had become as empty in Britain as they had become back in the States, he certainly could have made a good living as a songwriter, either in a partnership or on his own.

While in the UK, Simon became acquainted with Bruce Woodley, an Australian who had recently had success as a member of The Seekers. Their international hits by then included "I'll Never Find Another You", "A World of Our Own", and "The Carnival Is Over". Considering that Simon was a relative unknown, he must have jumped at the opportunity to work with an individual who'd been in the charts, even if the clean cut Christian Seekers weren't exactly the coolest people to be associating with. From Woodley's perspective, having a talented New Yorker to work with may have made for a refreshing change of pace compared to his wholesome group. More significantly, The Seekers tended to record compositions by Tom Springfield and/or older folk songs so it's likely that the guitarist was looking for an opportunity to doing some writing of his own.

However unlikely and short-lived the team-up, Simon and Woodley worked well enough together to co-compose at least three numbers: "Cloudy", which eventually ended up appearing on the third Simon and Garfunkel album Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, "I Wish You Could Be Here", which both The Seekers and The Cyrkle would go on to record, and the hit single "Red Rubber Ball". I say "short-lived" because the two promptly fell out, with Woodley not even credited for his work on "Cloudy". How apt, then, that their one hit single is about picking up the pieces after a relationship has imploded.

Despite the vagueness of its Wikipedia entry, "Red Rubber Ball" sounds more like it's about a couple breaking up rather than the end of a friendship. Though the bubbly sunshine pop and hopeful chorus conspire to create an impression that this guy is moving on, there's far too much bitterness in the verses for him to be even moderately convincing. Also, does the sun shine like a red rubber ball? No, it doesn't so they're saying precisely nothing here. Fortunately, singers Don Dannemann and Tom Dawes — both of whom would eventually migrate toward the world of advertising jingles — give the material a flat reading which makes it seem like they aren't completely convinced by the lyrics either.

Such subject matter doesn't seem to have been Paul Simon's thing. Isn't he supposed to be writing songs about running around the streets of Brooklyn and Queens while being privy to all kinds of shenanigans or maybe doing a word salad philosophical treatise on economics and celebrity? (I've never been a fan myself but this does sum up my impression of his work) Working with Woodley may dulled his mark on the song which is a danger of collaboration. It doesn't anticipate any kind of potential songwriting juggernaut so I guess it worked out that Simon ended up back in the US doing all the heavy lifting in his world famous duo.

The Cyrkle got their one big hit from Paul Simon, they were managed by Brian Epstein and their rather unique name was suggested by John Lennon so they certainly had connections. (Their debut album, also titled Red Rubber Ball, was surprisingly free of Lennon-McCartney covers though they would do a version of "I'm Happy Just to Dance with You" on follow up Neon, which would have seemed out of place on an LP from 1967 though they did try to update it) And let's not forget The Seekers while we're at it. They made the best with what they had but that ended up being a reasonably enjoyable summer pop hit. But, hey, it's better than most of us could ever do. Even among their peers, they accomplished something to be hugely proud of. The even beat Paul Simon and Bruce Woodley to the top of the Canadian charts, though we'll be seeing them both again real soon.

Score: 5

~~~~~

Con Can

One of several new entries on the RPM 100 this week comes from Edmonton's King-Beezz. Though formed in Alberta's capital, three of them happened to be Scottish which, according to the brief bio on their Discogs page, made them part of the British Invasion. Yeah, whatever. American acts like The Buckinghams were soon to emerge as an English group who happened to come from the States and I think this is where this lot fit in, Thankfully, that's all they share with the bloody Buckinghams. As I think I bring up every time I write about a not terribly brilliant Can-Rock act in this space, I have no doubt King-Beezz were a hoot at the White Ave bars and at the University of Alberta students centre but their version of The Who's "I Can't Explain" is merely adequate. Basically a copy of the original but one in which every aspect is weaker. A cynic would say that's the garage rock playbook and you know how I know? Because I'm that cynic. (To be fair, their cover of Them's "Gloria" is stronger but I still never need to hear it again)

The Beatles: "Paperback Writer"

July 4, 1966 (1 week)

Bored with indie and pop at the time, I went through one of my sporadic Beatles phases in the summer of 1993. I had been playing my mum's collection a lot, particularly 62-66 (the one they call the Red Album though I never did), 67-70 (the Blue Album; Jesus, fans of the Fab Four really don't put much thought into their nicknames, do they?) and the North American version of Revolver (the one with just eleven tracks including only two contributions from John, the lazy bugger!) but I figured it was time I had one of my own. So, I went into my local HMV and picked out — on cassette — my first Beatles' album which was...Past Masters.

(The title of this 1988 compilation confused me. Past Masters? Aren't The Beatles good enough that we can say that they're still masters, even after all these years?)

Past Masters was released to fill in the gaps in people's collections (unless you were me: I subsequently filled in the gaps around Past Masters). If you had all the albums and this set then you had everything they ever released. (More than thirty years and all sorts of Live at the BBC collections, Anthology releases and deluxe editions later, this now seems very quaint) I didn't know this at the time, I just thought it looked like a cool compilation to have. And it was and still is.

The highlight for me at the time was the first four tracks on the second cassette: "Day Tripper", "We Can Work It Out", "Paperback Writer" and "Rain". Bloody hell. These were taken from brilliant singles that didn't even end up on albums. I don't think I'd ever even heard "Rain" prior to then. Volume One (the first cassette) shows them going through the whirlwind of Beatlemania with some subtle growth occasionally undermined by the odd dismal cover version. (Perhaps it is too forgettable for most to be bothered with but I maintain that the Ringo-sung "Matchbox" is the worst song they ever recorded) Then, Volume Two comes on and there's no stopping them. 1967 isn't represented on Past Masters so we don't get to hear The Beatles at their very best but their full flowering is still evident.

I already knew "Paperback Writer" by then but this was the first time I really listened to it. I had been learning how to play bass guitar for a couple years and was astonished by Paul McCartney's playing on it. I was also fancying myself a poet during this time which may have made the narrative of a struggling writer trying to find a publisher appealing to me. Finally, I was big into comedy back in '93, a devoted fan of The Kids in the Hall and The Simpsons (and, soon, the suddenly popular Seinfeld) so it was cool to discover something by the Fab Four that had some humour. ("Paperback Writer" is a much funnier song than "Drive My Car" though "Good Morning Good Morning" is probably their funniest track of all) This background may then explain why I had the brilliant idea to write a reply song. (I hadn't thought of this until now but it's possible that the final episode of The Wonder Years that May played a part in my renewed interest in The Beatles at that time)

The lyrics to "Paperback Writer II" are, sadly, lost to time beyond the opening of "Dear Paul McCartney, thank you for your book..." but it read as a publisher turning down this crummy novel about a man named Lear (a dirty fellow with a clinging wife and a son who, oddly, also wishes to be a paperback writer: more on this curio in a bit) but in a diplomatic tone. As with every song lyric and/or poem I came up with at the time, I figured it was genius but I eventually came to my senses and abandoned it. (In retrospect, it would have been far more amusing to have had the publisher blow smoke up McCartney's ass only to reveal in the song's final verse that he or she would like him to send them a bundle of cash to get the thing published and in the book shops. The naive aspiring novelist in the original would've definitely been conned by a sleazy vanity press)

~~~~~

As Beatles' singles go, "Paperback Writer" must be their most divisive. Many young fans at the time were decidedly underwhelmed. As Jon Savage notes in his book 1966: The Year the Decade Exploded, when promotional films for it and B side "Rain" aired on The Ed Sullivan Show, "there was no screaming". (Savage also quotes some longtime British fans who spoke at the time to the Record Mirror and they weren't terribly impressed by it) Their massive fanbase loyally took it to number one around the world but it struggled to stay there for long. While both of the singles the preceded and followed it — the double A sides "We Can Work It Out" / "Day Tripper" and "Yellow Submarine" / "Eleanor Rigby" respectively — each enjoyed four week stays on top in the UK, it held on for just a fortnight while over on the Hot 100 it was displaced by Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night" after just one week before reclaiming the number one position for another seven day stint. (Meanwhile, the RPM chart was still in its unwritten 'one week is enough' period so it had the same length on top as all their other number ones that year) It feels like the first Beatles' single that kids wouldn't have been talking about on the playground the day after catching them on Top of the Pops or on Ed Sullivan.

Still, "Paperback Writer" has its supporters. Tom Breihan, who is open about his disdain for several Beatles' songs, considers it to be a "motherfuck of a pop song" (in the best possible sense, presumably). While not quite as gushing, Tom Ewing is also full of praise. While perhaps a case of "meta-hackwork", he nevertheless has it down as one of his favourite Fabs' numbers. Some pop critics in Britain liked it at the time as well.

On the other hand, there are others who are cooler towards it. Ian MacDonald thought it was relatively "hollow" and that its storyline's "potential poignancy is sacrificed to excitement, word-games, and studio-effects"..Aidan Curran describes it as "paper-thin whimsy" while concluding his review stating that it's "essentially putdownable". Roy Carr and Tony Tyler argue that much of the backlash resulted from "the triviality of the lyric and a slight nagging suspicion that the Beatles were playing at 'being songwriters' at a time when the world was waiting for The Word".

Some praise, some harsh words and that's the thing about this song: I sort of agree with everyone here. I admire much of it and enjoy having it on but I don't quite love it. The narrative might either be at a level of irony that anticipates the Pet Shop Boys by twenty years or it may be the result of carelessness but either way it can get on my nerves if I put too much thought into it. (I suspect that McCartney was being sloppy with his weird 'son who also wants to be a paperback writer' aside but that's up for debate) It's remarkable what they were able to do in the studio which counts for something, only it shouldn't be listened to closely. During the second verse, John Lennon and George Harrison can be heard singing "Frère Jacques" which only underscores how meaningless the whole thing is. It is indeed a motherfuck of a pop record — but it's also something of a mindfuck of a pop record.

It is said that the inspiration for "Paperback Writer" came when one of Paul's many aunties up in Liverpool (perhaps it was "Auntie Jin" who is namechecked in "Let 'Em In") encouraged him to write a pop song that didn't involve the topic of love. He then went and wrote this, a song that is so cutting it could've come from John Lennon instead. What's odd about this exchange — real or fictional — is that his songwriting had reached a peak during this same time and while he would never leave matters of the heart behind, he was composing material on other subjects as well. His contributions to Revolver from roughly the same time — "Eleanor Rigby", "Here, There and Everywhere", "Good Day Sunshine", "For No One", "Got to Get You Into My Life" — are some of the finest songs of his vast career. There's a depth of feeling to all of them in one way or another ("Good Day Sunshine" isn't a big favourite of most fans but it sounds heartfelt to me) which makes "Paperback Writer" seem all the more out of place.

~~~~~

The one thing just about everyone can agree on it its B side "Rain". Like "You Can't Do That" before it and "Don't Let Me Down" after, it was a John song that got shafted by an inferior, if commercially more viable, work of Paul's. While "Paperback Writer" is good, daft fun but with that inescapable feeling that it's a bit of a throwaway, its flip side is thoughtful while still being a great listen with plenty of musical invention in its own right. Yet, it spent the better part of twenty years as an afterthought, a track that ended up being regularly passed over for inclusion on the bulk of their compilations. When it appeared on Past Masters, everyone seemingly came to the conclusion that it had been their best B side for all those years in secret.

Which leads me to the (belated) conclusion of this review: such a fate would never have befallen "Paperback Writer" itself. For all its flaws, it has always been catchy and glorious. It can be studied by budding bass players, songwriters and, yes, poets or it can be picked to pieces by critics and bloggers or it can be enjoyed as yet another high watermark by generations of Beatles' fans. Warts and all, there's no doing without it.

Score: 8

The Chiffons: "Sweet Talkin' Guy"

June 27, 1966 (1 week)

The Chiffons have two songs that are well-known to this day: "One Fine Day", which is great, and "He's So Fine" which is no "My Sweet Lord". Obviously, they recorded a great deal more but who beyond their no doubt devoted following could name any of them? That's not to say that the hits dried up since here we are discussing them again coming from a year in which their soulful doo-wop pop had seemingly died out.

But there wasn't a great deal left beyond their two biggest hits. Following the Top 5 success of "One Fine Day" in 1963, follow-up singles "I Love So Fine" and "I Have a Boyfriend" could do no better than graze the Top 40. Subsequent releases couldn't even do that well. By this point, the girl group craze had died down with both Merseybeat and Motown dominating airplay and sales. Yet somehow or other, The Chiffons managed to return to former glories in 1966 with "Sweet Talkin' Guy".

While recognizable as The Chiffons, the one notable difference is that its arrangement sounds more up-to-date. On the surface, it sounds like they'd been borrowing heavily from the Motown sound but in reality the playing is more like the product of LA's Wrecking Crew than Detroit's Funk Brothers. With Phil Spector already in retreat after the failure of Ike and Tina Turner's "River Deep - Mountain High" on the American charts, it was left to his many imitators to pick up the slack. The good folk at Bright Tunes Productions — who had previously produced "One Fine Day" as well as The Tokens' "The Lion Sleeps Tonight — did a good job making it almost seem like The Supremes had been given the Wall of Sound treatment.

Almost. The trouble is, it's still at heart a highly predictable throwback to the heyday of the girl groups. The Chiffons do their brand of in unison singing as well as ever but it's very much just as they were on both "One Fine Day" and "He's So Fine" - which, it must be said, are both far sturdier compositions. There's far too much of the sense that almost everyone involved was going through the motions. They weren't making a game attempt at re-positioning The Chiffons for a 1966 audience but just to re-claim what had once been there's. And it worked, though only for this one off bounce back. Though "Sweet Talkin' Guy" took them to number one in Canada and gave them a Top 10 hit in both the US and UK (their British success though was belated by six years) but who remembers it now? "He's So Fine" and "One Fine Day" have both managed to survive but a similar fate did not await this one — and it's by no means due to some sort of cruel pop injustice.

Score: 4

Gary Lewis and the Playboys: "Green Grass"

June 20, 1966 (1 week)

It's hot take time! Yes, I've saved my latest musical revelation for my Canadian number ones blog rather than posting it to absolutely no interest from my modest following on Threads. You can go about ignoring my oh-so original opinions so all those music geeks on social media don't have to.

With that intro out of the way, here it is: the Second British Invasion was better than the First.

In order to explain my rationale, let me list off some favourites. From the sixties, I love The Beatles, really like the Stones, Kinks and Dusty Springfield and am fairly into The Who and Hollies. That's about it as far as it goes: the rest I have no opinion on at best. Shifting over to the early eighties, there's The Human League, Madness, Dexys Midnight Runners, Kate Bush, ABC, Scritti Politti, Culture Club, XTC, The Jam, Soft Cell, Tears for Fears, Kim Wilde, Haircut One Hundred, Wham! and Duran Duran and that's not even accounting for groups who I don't care for all that much. While only a handful became superstars on the other side of the Atlantic, this lot represents a significant uptick in overall quality. (The British seemed to have the good sense to keep their disposable pop acts — Bucks Fizz, Bardo — at home) While the presence of The Beatles alone puts the sixties' British Invasion at a significant advantage, the eighties' equivalent makes up for it with shear depth.

The creative spark that drove The Beatles and their legitimate contenders failed to inspire much in the likes of Herman's Hermits and Peter and Gordon but at least it helped push American pop forward. (While The Beach Boys and The Four Seasons were already having hits prior to the emergence of Beatlemania, it's likely that The Byrds and The Lovin' Spoonful would have had a tougher time breaking through without the Fab Four paving the way) A great deal has been made of Bob Dylan influencing John Lennon and Pet Sounds inspiring Paul McCartney but it wasn't just the heavyweights who were upping their game. Even the son of a renowned comedian who possessed a cheesy grin and a less than impressive vocal range proved up to the challenge — at least as far as he was capable at least.

As Tom Breihan notes in his mostly savage review of "This Diamond Ring", Gary Lewis and the Playboys nabbed an unlikely number one smash on the Billboard Hot 100 hot on the heels of several pop classics (he evidently likes Petula Clark's "Downtown" a lot more than I do) which must've seemed like such a clash - either that or American teenagers of the era figured it was just as great as "My Girl" and "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling". Not a great song to begin with, it isn't helped along by many of the great songs it followed but it's possible that still managed to learn a thing or two in the process. "This Diamond Ring" came up short of the top spot on the RPM listings but the equally poor "Save Your Heart for Me" nabbed them up north later in the year.

Over the course of 1965, the quality of their work began to modestly improve. Hit singles "Everybody Loves a Clown", "She's Just My Style" and "Sure Gonna Miss Her" proved to be surprisingly engaging while remaining reliably facile. Jerry Lewis was one of those comedians who could be equal parts funny and irritating and there's something about son Gary that indicates he picked up some of his pop's habits. Not a great singer to begin with, he often sounds like he's trying a little too hard to be an 'awe, shucks' everyman. On "Green Grass", however, his vocals are just about good enough and, thus, there's not the same need to play up to the crowd. Lewis could be a charming gentleman when he wanted to be and that's precisely how he sounds here.

Over the years, Lewis has maintained that the band he formed while still in high school played on all their recordings from "This Diamond Ring" on. I have no reason to doubt this claim though it has also been pointed out that studio pros added overdubs along the way. As the months rolled by, the lineup changed to the point where it was just Lewis and buddy John West remaining. Filling in were some of the finest studio musicians a trust fund baby like Lewis could find. Leon Russell had been present to do the arrangements while Jim Keltner came on board for percussion duties. These changes resulted in some tighter playing on later Playboys releases.

"Green Grass" is far from a masterpiece of sixties pop but it is a good deal better than the dreck Lewis had been putting out a year earlier. Unfortunately, his path towards musical respectability was halted when he ended up being drafted into the American armed forces. The hits would continue but the Top 10 stopped being what was expected. He never quite reached the next level though it could very well have been beyond his talents anyway. The circumstances of a pop music golden age helped him get this far so well done for trying and just about succeeding. Many who were a part of the First British Invasion weren't nearly as capable.

Score: 6

The Rolling Stones: "Paint It Black"

June 13, 1966 (1 week)

The Rolling Stones would eventually go on to rack up eight number one hits on Canada's RPM charts. While a far cry from Elvis, The Beatles or Madonna, this is no mean feat. Yet, this total is surprisingly spread out, leaving the pickings slim for what is their best period as a singles act. While six of their seven UK chart toppers were during Brian Jones' time with the band — with the seventh, "Honky Tonk Women", reaching the top spot just a few weeks after his death — just three of their Canadian number ones were during the sixties. (They would have three more in the seventies and another two — improbably — in the eighties) Following "Paint It Black", the Stones wouldn't top the charts in Canada for another five years.

Though the Stones would go on to record their most critically acclaimed set of albums - the run from Beggars Banquet through to Exile on Main Street as well as the 1978 tour-de-force Some Girls — and would become the greatest live attraction in rock 'n' roll, the shadow of the Brian Jones era still looms (to the extent that Ron Wood has been a member of the group for nearly fifty years but it still feels like he's the new guy). It was between 1963 to '69 that they had their initial burst of fame, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards developed as songwriters and they had the standard of The Beatles to try to measure up to.

"Paint It Black" is perhaps the first sign that the group was changing. Jones found himself becoming sidelined by the Jagger-Richards partnership as well as manager Andrew Loog Oldham's maneuvering. (The suspcious, sidelong look he gives his bandmates on the UK cover of Aftermath says it all) Bored with being a blues guitarist in a pop group, he spent the remaining years of productivity as the group's brilliant all-arounder, contributing immeasurably to their burgeoning sound. Left off of "As Tears Go By", he contributes a hypnotic sitar part to "Paint It Black", easily its most memorable feature. Yet, the group seemed to be laying the groundwork for the era ahead without him.

The song's darkness hints at the likes of "Sympathy for the Devil" and "Midnight Rambler", albeit without the same kind of musical dynamics beyond Jones' playing. It also lacks that swagger that typically marks out the finest Stones' songs: Jagger's voice snarls and spits out bitterness but he doesn't have that same vocal command. (For all the love I have for the Stones in the sixties, there's no denying that Mick was at his peak during the following decade) More significantly, the darkness here smacks of him trying to come across as profound when Jagger really didn't have all that much to say to begin with. He sees a bleak world around him and spends the next three minutes hammering the point home. I guess it's commendable that he recognizes a darkness in himself as well. The Stones frequently got away with having a good deal more depth to them than the more pop friendly Beatles but I'm not buying it.

Squaring these thoughts of mine with the score below is difficult, I know. Plainly, this is a song that I really like even if it reads like I'm trashing it. The Rolling Stones were on a hot streak at the time with "Paint It Black" being but one of many top quality songs they had churned out. I prefer their more reflective ("I Am Waiting", "Lady Jane") or funnier ("Mother's Little Helper", "Think") material of the time but there's always a place for some hard-hitting, raga-flavoured rock — especially with Jones' sitar and Charlie Watts' tribal drum part. Much like The Beatles with "Eight Days a Week", the Stones could seemingly piss out any old thing and make it far more appealing than the bulk of the competition.

Finally, a word on the title. Due to a record company error, pressings of the single had it as "Paint It, Black" which to this day is sometimes how you'll see it written. But given the discrepancy between the title and the lyric "I want it painted black", I wonder if there was another mistake involved. "Painted Black" may seem wrong but that's only because we've had the better part of sixty years to get used to it the other way. Plus, this speaks to the fact that the Stones had to prioritize writing, recording, performing and living the rock 'n' roll lifestyle to the max rather than concern themselves with trivial matters like record sleeves and credits and all that nonsense.

Score: 8

Percy Sledge: "When a Man Loves a Woman"

June 6, 1966 (1 week)

Steven: "And there's these three girls with the band: I've had lustful thoughts...about all of them. And when I studied I used to sing hymns, now I'm always humming "When a Man Loves a Woman" by Marvin Gaye and..."

Father: "(whispers) Percy Sledge."

Steven: "What?"

Father "It was Percy Sledge who did that particular song. I have the album."

Steven: "Oh."

Steven Clifford isn't a particularly interesting character in The Commitments. While others are shown either being recruited or scouted by manager Jimmy Rabbitte, he appears seemingly out of the blue at an early band meeting, much to the chagrin of some members who look down upon him due to his advanced education. (There are working class snobs, you know!) The aspiring impresario counters that he's a mean keyboardist and that his medical training might come in handy at some of the dodgy venues they may end up playing at. Though he comes to be accepted by the others, Steven doesn't appear to be growing tight with any of them and the film comes to an end with him becoming a doctor as he had expected. He isn't at the centre of any drama, doesn't sleep with any of the girls he admits to fancying and doesn't fall out massively with anyone during their split. In other words, he's the one you're mostly likely to have forgotten all about.

But as the above exchange indicates, he has been changed by the experience of playing Dublin Soul. The sins he has to confess to the Father all surround the group: he's been neglecting his studies, he's been uttering some cruse words, he's been having lustful thoughts and when he has been hitting the books it's been to the tune of "When a Man Loves a Woman". I love the idea that he thinks the latter is some kind of a sin. (Of course, it may well be a sin for all I know!) Music is a conduit for Steven's rebellious side as he demonstrates by playing "A Whiter Shade of Pale" on the church organ. In the film's closing scene he is shown in his medical practice instructing a patient to say "ah, ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah" which suggests that he's maybe not as timid as he once was.

"When a Man Loves a Woman" isn't mentioned in the film beyond the Steven's confessional but it represents just how devoted Jimmy Rabbitte and the others were to The Commitments. Imelda, a pretty blonde with a serious (if also controlling and obnoxious) boyfriend, needs the band perhaps less than anyone yet she demonstrates her commitment — see what I did there? — by walking out on a family trip at the last second in order to rejoin her bandmates for a gig. Audiences laugh at them at their first gig, Jimmy's Elvis-loving father thinks the whole thing is a load of bollocks, they owe money to thugs and the pay is meager. Yet, they all happily sacrifice everything for a group that doesn't end up going anywhere in the end. When a person loves playing music, they'll put up with everything that Percy Sledge sings of.

As a lifelong fan of music, I often smirk at the average person's choice of song. I had a friend and roommate about twenty years ago who was in a chorus and one day I heard her singing along to The Beach Boys' "God Only Knows". She explained to me that they were going to be performing it at an upcoming wedding. I couldn't get over the idea of a song that begins with the line "I may not always love you..." being sung to a pair of newlyweds and that they chose it. What did it matter that "God only knows what I'd be without you" is its most repeated line or that it is arguably the prettiest song ever invented: I'm a music snob and those people didn't know anything, the silly turds.

As you can probably tell by my tone, I no longer make it my goal in life to be a giant downer whenever it comes to music. I'm in my forties now and I'm happy to accept whatever people want. Not only that, I now agree with this couple I never met and who never knew who the hell I am: "God Only Knows" should be played at weddings (and, indeed, everywhere else). The same goes for "When a Man Loves a Woman". In this case, however, it would never have occurred to me to look down upon someone for choosing it for a couple's first dance. (Well, I might have rolled my eyes at it being such a commonplace choice but not at its subject matter)

To be fair, I don't really hear it as a song about a perfect couple. The guy here is going through some serious shit and there's no way it's going to be getting better for him before it gets so much worse. I've been in some crappy situations and contemplated some of these hypothetical outcomes. I've been happily married for just over ten years and still find myself agreeing with Percy Sledge but just because I would do these things for love that doesn't mean I'm not grateful for the fact that I don't have to do them.

Score: 9

The Mamas and the Papas: "Monday, Monday"

May 16, 1966 (3 weeks)

In a group full of startling figures, he's hiding in plain sight on The Ed Sullivan Show. His bandmates are a pretty young woman, a very hefty girl and a lanky fellow wearing a comically small necktie and a Russian hat. (As someone of advanced height myself, I think I'm qualified to say that the worst kind of tall person is the one who somehow also has a small man complex) Such characters obscure the fact that the lead singer looks like a very personable gameshow host, the sort who tastefully flirts with all the female contestants and doesn't come across as a rancid phony.

This is Denny Doherty, lead singer and token Canadian in The Mamas and the Papas. I say 'token Canadian' but he's as valuable and irreplaceable as anyone on the stage with him. He will soon engage in an affair with bandmate Michelle Phillips which will lead to her short-lived expulsion from the group. Leader John Phillips isn't one to treat the women in his life very well (which is a colossal understatement) but he pushes for his own wife to be chucked out of the group while Denny manages to remain. Not only that but the two of them soon collaborate on a song about the forbidden dalliance. (Look out for that review in the not-too-distant future!)

John Phillips, Michelle Phillips and Mama Cass Elliot (who was in love with her dashing singing partner) all knew how much Doherty meant to The Mamas and the Papas but few seem to acknowledge him much anymore. He wasn't in a sordid marriage - even if he played no small part in the collapse of another - nor was his death the stuff of rock 'n' roll mythology. In his review of "Monday, Monday", Tom Breihan doesn't mention the name 'Denny Doherty' even once while he spends whole paragraphs yammering on about what a giant piece of shit John Phillips was.

Yet, Doherty is the biggest reason why "Monday, Monday" is so remarkable and why The Mamas and the Papas are still fondly remembered to this day. Chewy like David Crosby's voice but with added silkiness, the way he sang gave a whole new definition to the word 'effortless'. Obviously Mama Cass was an accomplished singer in her own right but she didn't get nearly the same opportunities for the solo spotlight (this would change in 1968 following the success of her signature tune "Dream a Little Dream of Me"). John Phillips may have treated the women in his group shabbily but at least he knew better than to assume lead vocal duties over the guy with the finest voice in modern pop.

Doherty's singing is so masterful — with an obvious assist from the other three — that he guides a good but not great composition up into the stratosphere. Melodically lovely, it is let down a little by an overly simplistic lyric. Mondays always seem nice but then they inevitably let you down. It apparently took Phillips just twenty minutes to write it and it shows. But who cares when you've got the Wrecking Crew playing the music and The Mamas and the Papas proving that there wasn't a vocal harmony group that could touch them.

Yet, "Monday, Monday" has become somewhat overlooked over the years. Though it outperformed its predecessor on virtually every chart around the world, it is their debut hit "California Dreaming" that is the more fondly remembered Mamas and Papas song. There are probably those who assume that it was their lone American number one but it "only" got to number four Stateside. Though its luster for me has been dimmed by early nineties group The River City People and their bloodless cover version (not to mention the inexplicable decision to release a song about living through a miserable winter in the summer), "California Dreaming" is first rate - it just isn't quite in the same league as "Monday, Monday". It's probably just a case of the group having improved significantly. Their harmonies are more dynamic, the production is stronger — perhaps the only thing "California Dreaming" has over it is better lyrics.

Still, there's not a great deal to choose from between their two biggest hits — and they weren't done there either. Though massive drug intake, legal issues and, to be sure, all kinds of sexual tension did them in far earlier than even your typical dysfunctional pop act, their output over the following two years is exceptional. They'll even be popping up in this space a couple more times. So, let's not focus on all the shit at least three of them went through and try to put aside the John Phillips nastiness — even though it will almost certainly come up again — and try to remember that they were a standout group even in the golden age of pop. 

Score: 9

Paul Revere and the Raiders: "Kicks"

May 2, 1966 (1 week)

As I have discussed before, one of the key rock bands who will not be reviewed in this space is is the California quintet-turned-quartet musical polymaths The Byrds. I have already expressed regret that neither "Mr. Tambourine Man" (a number one of the Hot 100) nor "Turn! Turn! Turn!" (a chart topper on both sides of the Atlantic) were unable to reach the top in Canada. Worse still, they never managed an unexpected number one with any of their many far superior singles. Strong as much of their jingle-jangle folk-rock is, there was much more to them. Sadly, as opposed to The Beatles, their commercial decline coincided with their creative apogee. Here are just a few notable aspects of The Byrds:

They innovated within the realms of folk rock, psychedelic rock, raga rock and country rock. They then attempted to merge them all together during their largely ignored later years to mixed results.

Their first six albums are absolutely brilliant. From Mr. Tambourine Man through to Sweetheart of the Rodeo, every LP they released between 1965 and 1968 was either flawless or very nearly so. I particularly recommend 1967's Younger Than Yesterday and The Notorious Byrd Brothers from the following year.

For a band who relied on Bob Dylan and ...(checks notes)...The Bible for their two biggest hits, they had at least four gifted songwriters. They are Gene Clark, David Crosby, Chris Hillman and Gram Parsons. It is said that others who came and went could write a song or two as well so let's give them that too!

In addition, lead singer Roger McGuinn was an outstanding guitarist. With tastes as catholic as Lennon and McCartney, he took influences such as John Coltrane and Ravi Shankar to create some incredible solos.

Finally, they were as influential as they come (which the first point sort of implies). Even on their debut album, their sound was so distinctive that the studious George Harrison borrowed much from their version of "The Bells of Rhymney" in order to come up with "If I Needed Someone". Whatsmore, their jangle pop sound has never really gone away as generations of critically acclaimed and commercially doomed power pop bands will attest.

"If I Needed Someone" appeared on The Beatles' seminal Rubber Soul album during the closing stages of 1965 which was roughly six months after the release of Mr. Tambourine Man featuring "The Bells of Rhymney". Clearly, the 12-string jangle sound was catching on. A number of garage rock bands tried it out including the so far largely luckless Paul Revere and the Raiders. Actually, things had been looking up for them after several years of obscurity. Their swampy blues rock single "Steppin' Out" had even given them a Top 10 hit on the RPM chart though it did rather less well on the Hot 100.

"Kicks" proved to be the breakthrough hit they needed. The Byrdsian sound isn't just evident in the guitar playing but in the softer vocal delivery on the part of lead singer Mark Lindsay. Rather than being a very early prototype for John Fogerty's distinctive rasp with Credence Clearwater Revival, he sounds much more like a trippy, acid-rock figurehead spouting off about egos and voids and all that hokum. Yet, that's not what he's selling: tripping your balls off may well be fun and enlightening but what happens the next morning when you have to once again deal with reality?

What's remarkable about "Kicks" is how early this anti-drug warning came along. The song's Wikipedia article states that it stood in contrast to the likes of Jefferson Airplanes' "White Rabbit", a single that wouldn't come out for another year. (It also mentions The Association's "Along Comes Mary" and The Byrds — yes, them again — and their groundbreaking hit "Eight Miles High" which both came out at roughly the same time as "Kicks") While squares from the establishment were already voicing their disapproval of recreational drugs, Paul Revere and the Raiders were voicing their concerns well before straight edge types who had cleaned up due to the influence of a in-no-way shady cult leader began doing so.

Some of their contemporaries considered the Raiders to be traitors or felt that their hit record was a load of crap but this didn't impact kids who tried to make up for The Byrds and their lack of a Canadian number one by taking this to the top instead. "Eight Miles High", "Set You Free This Time" (a Top 20 entry that largely failed elsewhere), "Have You Seen Her Face" and "Goin' Back" all would have been sure fire 9's or 10's but this will have to do. Not nearly as brilliant as the group's fans will have you believe but nowhere close to as dogshit as David Crosby considered. Influential as they no doubt were, The Byrds didn't inspire a whole lot of wonderful bands and certainly none who could match their level of excellence. With the bar sufficiently lowered, "Kicks" manages to clear it.

Score: 7

The Young Rascals: "Good Lovin'"

April 25, 1966 (2 weeks)

Two weeks? Two whole weeks?!? Could the streak of twenty straight single-week number ones be over after all this time?

Not quite. You see, The Young Rascals' "Good Lovin'" actually spent two non-consecutive weeks at number one in Canada, hitting the top spot on April 25, dropping down to number two the following week before rebounding back to number one on May 9. (Had the RPM charts still been operating under its previous rules, it would have been ineligible to return to the top since singles had been erased from the hit parade as soon as they began to tumble) Looking for something to take the number one spot and stay there for more than seven days? You'll just have to wait a bit longer.

Still, it's nice to see even this modest amount of longevity on the part of a number one hit. Though I'm aware that having a number one is a tremendous accomplishment — even if it happened to be in Canada — there's something to be said for remaining there for at least a second week, if not more so. Give the kids a chance to get sick of something before you they decide to ditch it.

Like The Lovin' Spoonful's "Daydream" just prior to it, "Good Lovin'" is one of those all-too-familiar American pop/rock throwbacks, the type of song that I am always surprised to discover isn't on the Forrest Gump soundtrack and wasn't even included in the movie. (It is, however, on the equally popular soundtrack to the 1983 film The Big Chill, though "Daydream" is not) Oldies radio has been built on such numbers which shouldn't be a point in its favour but it's strong enough to overcome it.

The Young Rascals are going to be appearing in this space several times — on four occasions with their original name and two more as their mature years as 'The Rascals' — so I don't want to say too much here. This is one of two numbers of theirs that people tend to remember (the other one will be discussed here shortly) and with good reason. "Good Lovin'" is catchy and a great example of how to craft pop that is moronic but fun. They didn't put much thought into it and why would they? The Rascals didn't even write the damn thing but they still managed to get it.

The original by California soul group The Olympics has its merits but it's simply too uptight to have any hope of matching its much more famous and popular cover version. It's as if they took all those cries of "Doctor! Mr. MD!" seriously, not realizing how comically stupid they are. Comedy in a song about being prescribed a dose of good lovin'? Well I never!

Lead Rascal Felix Cavaliere seemed to find the perfect balance between knowing a song is a joke but not treating his performance as one. Blue-eyed soul and garage rock may not seem like genres that would mesh well together but they certainly do in this instance. Over-played and over-familiar but the best songs always manage to overcome too much popularity. If not quite a hands down sixties' classic then still a gas all the same.

Score: 8

~~~~~

C'Mon, Be a CHUM!

We haven't checked in on Toronto's formerly national CHUM chart for a while so let's see what has been topping the charts over there. (With "Good Lovin'" at a surprisingly weak number twenty-right, The Young Rascals were apparently doing a lot better in the rest of Canada) Bill Medley's baritone is comically deep and resonant on The Righteous Brothers' latest hit "(You're My} Soul and Inspiration", a near-copy of their wonderful chart topper "You've Lost That Loving Feeling". If they were trying to move away from Phil Spector, I'm not sure doing a second rate facsimile of his Wall of Sound production style was the way to go about doing so. Proof that there's a fine line between unforgettable and totally forgettable as well as sufficient evidence that they were a flash in the pan. (I mean, it was a hell of a flash so we've got to give them that) Only a number two on RPM's chart but that too is more than it merited. I don't know why anyone would've gone to their local drug store to buy a copy of this when "Secret Agent Man" was available but you can always rely on a slushy love song of limited creative worth to punch above its weight.

The Lovin' Spoonful: "Daydream"

April 18, 1966 (1 week)

The RPM's ludicrous changeover of number one hits from week-to-week is something I have been going on about ever since the magazine took over from CHUM as Canada's national pop music charts — even if I will acknowledge that I think it largely tracks with the way fickle kids would shift from one favourite song to another — but at least we somehow managed to avoid the wretchedness of Barry Sadler's "The Ballad of the Green Berets". Down in the States, this tale of soldiers waging war in countries for no reason defending freedom had ruled the Hot 100 for what must have been a long, drawn out five weeks but north of the border it could do no better than a modest number twenty-six. (Still higher than it deserved but I'll take it)

Was this a case of early anti-Americanism in Canada? While I would like to think so, it seems doubtful - and not because I'm one of those sad, reactionary conservatives who seem startled by the seemingly unprecedented site of Canadians having had enough of crap from the United States. (Anti-American sentiments have existed in my homeland for at least as long as I can remember and probably well before I was ever relevant. They've recently come back with Trump's pathetic "51st State" talk as well as his stupid tariffs but I'm also old enough to remember post-9/11 fallout when George Bush expected Canada to join him on his immoral war on Iraq. I went through a much less noble bout of boredom with the US back in the nineties when freakshow TV news coverage was at its peak) Certainly a record about the American armed forces was going to be of more limited appeal to foreigners — yet it still managed to also make it to number one in South Africa and was a Top 10 hit in both West Germany and New Zealand — but the fact that it performed as well as it did tells you everything you need to know about the power of American media. And its crass jingoism isn't even the worst thing about it: it's also absolutely godawful. (Tom Breihan even considers it to be the worst number one in the history of the Hot 100 and he's not wrong)

Fortunately, there were others American acts around to make up for Sadler's appalling mess of a pop song. The Vogues had just been back at number one with the surprisingly wonderful "Magic Town" and they were followed by The Lovin' Spoonful with their first Canadian chart topper "Daydream". The group had been on an upward trajectory since the previous year with debut single "Do You Believe in Magic?" taking them to number three and "You Didn't Have to Be So Nice" doing one better. Now, they had an RPM chart sweep of the bronze, silver and gold positions.

Led by the unconventionally charismatic John Sebastian (who, it's worth pointing out, was rocking a pair of granny glasses at least a year prior to John Lennon's adoption of the same specs which became his trademark) and a Canadian folk singer named Zal Yanovsky (this being a time in which American groups began to have at least one Canuck in their lineups: in addition to The Lovin' Spoonful, Yanovsky's chum Denny Doherty had become a member of The Mamas and the Papas, Steppenwolf had a pair of Canadian expats in their ranks and Neil Young had recently formed Buffalo Springfield; the practice had become so commonplace that many had wrongly believed Peter Tork of The Monkees to also have been from the Great White North), The Lovin' Spoonful had come out of the Greenwich Village coffeehouses but seemed to have no interest whatsoever in folk music. Rather, they operated as a kind of East Coast response to the groups coming out of California: The Byrds, Love, The Doors, The Jefferson Airplane. They didn't stick to a particular style, content with playing whatever they felt like. They could be happy-go-lucky or menacing — and they could even get by not really giving a shit.

I don't think I had heard "Daydream" since I was a teenager and had to sit through my Mum playing Calgary's longtime oldies station 66CFR on the car radio. (Hey, it beat the hell out of her listening to the folk station) I didn't object to it then and I still don't but I don't find it particularly enthralling either. I thought my much more mature ears would have picked up on something that my apathetic adolescent self couldn't have cared less about but, alas, it sounds more or less the same as it always had. While it sounds a tad naive, "Do You Believe in Magic?" has that optimistic, sunshine quality that makes it impossible to dislike; future hit "Summer in the City" (coming soon to a Canadian number ones blog near you!) is slightly sinister and uneasy and is the sort of thing that's well-worth returning to. But "Daydream"? It's just sort of there. Appropriately, a song about kicking back and relaxing doesn't draw a whole lot of attention to itself and is a huge success in that regard!

Nevertheless, the rise of bands like The Lovin' Spoonful indicates that there was a new-found individualism in American pop. Groups that weren't beholden to Phil Spector, the New York songwriting teams and/or the houseband studio groups that had been ruling over the industry. Though not everyone in the American music industry was learning the same lesson, people like John Sebastian seemed to be coming to the conclusion that the best way to respond to the challenge of Lennon and McCartney was to find creative paths of their own. Copying the Fab Four wasn't the way to go and neither was retreating to the cliches of older American rock 'n' roll. It was time for a musical explosion of their own.

Score: 6

The Vogues: "Magic Town"

April 11, 1966 (1 week)

From the beginning of 1964 until the spring of '66, British Invasion acts had completely dominated the Canadian pop charts. In fact, many of them would continue to do so as the decade progressed but it was only now that a true American alternative was beginning to take shape. While The Beach Boys, Four Seasons and Supremes managed to do well in spite of the takeover by The Beatles, none of them operated as though they were in competition with the Fab Four. (Oddly enough, The Beach Boys would begin to respond to the challenge but only as their imperial status had begun to dip, albeit only slightly) But a whole new generation of US acts was beginning to emerge that could deal with the new bar John, Paul, George and Ringo had set, all the while (hopefully) bringing to an end the charlatans that had become big in their slipstream.

For the next nine weeks, American acts would control the of the top of the RPM charts. Not a particularly lengthy streak, no, but it was one that represented a country clawing its way back. The British weren't about to go away - not until the nineties at any rate — but from this point forward there was a greater balance between pop's two great cross-Atlantic forces. — for good or bad. While the incoming batch of US chart toppers is filled with heavyweights, it was down to the more selectively popular Vogues to begin righting the ship

The last time The Vogues came up (it wasn't all that long ago but it sure as hell feels like it's been a while) I gave "Five O'Clock World" a rather begrudging score of 7. Had I taken another day or two with it, there's a good chance it would've scored even lower. I had started off thinking it was a near-perfect sixties' throwback to happy-go-lucky losers only to get utterly sick and tired of it. (With all that in mind, it sure was the perfect theme to The Drew Carey Show) Their follow-up hit "Magic Town" is the opposite: a seemingly stale concoction at first that has managed to grow on me over the past several days. Had I spent more time stewing over it, it's possibly my esteem would have grown; I'm already convinced it is a step up from its better-remembered predecessor.

Like The Beach Boys and Four Seasons — and, indeed, virtually everyone in American pop who came out of that Spector-ish Wall of Sound malarkey — The Vogues seemed to operate in a universe untouched by The Beatles. "Magic Town" sounds like a brooding, slightly haunting fifties' doo-wop number, the kind of sonic experience that would've seemed all too predictable five years' earlier. Yet, among all this British Invasion dross, it sounds surprisingly fresh. No doubt helped along by the songwriting skills of Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, "Magic Town" has that 'lost American dream' melancholy that unifies a lot of the finest US pop of the age. Those suburbs populated by ex-servicemen, their brides and their ever-expanding families were meant to be 'magic towns' but now they had become nightmare fuel of depression, anxiety, alcoholism, loveless marriages, TV dinners and ennui. 

Though dutifully sent to number one in Canada, "Magic Town" peaked at a disappointing number twenty-one on the Billboard Hot 100. Though pop kids may have been turned off by its dire prognostication of the burbs, it's also quite possible that they simply didn't get the chance to let its charms stick to them like barnacles on a hull. Or, they chose not to give it a few spins. It just sounded like some of that pathetic old pre-Beatles' stuff that everyone had moved on from. But if Americans doing what they used to be best at wasn't going to convince enough fans, they would have to learn to adapt. Some were already doing so.

Score: 8

Peter and Gordon: "Woman"

April 4, 1966 (1 week)

With two number one hits along with a cover of one of their album cuts doing similar business, 1966 was already yet another one of the good years for The Beatles. Just about everything they touched topped the charts while the critical acclaim only seemed to grow. While artistic growth and commercial success often come in conflict for many musicians, no one has ever managed to combine the two as well as the Fab Four — and they even managed to do so for an extended period of time.

While John Lennon and Paul McCartney were their era's dominant songwriting team, they weren't quite as deft when it came to supplying hits for others. Yes, they did provide large smashes for the likes of Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas and Peter and Gordon but these were clearly cast offs that they had no interest in themselves. Plus, tracks like "Bad to Me" and, in particular, "World Without Love" weren't even suited to them. The group's punishing schedule of recording deadlines, concert dates, movie work and promotional commitments left little time for them to be considering how to properly tailor Lennon-McCartney originals to the people who relied on their songwriting prowess.

Meanwhile, Peter Asher and Gordon Waller were beginning to feel the pinch due to their connection to The Beatles. "World Without Love" had given them a global smash but their modest talents didn't allow for much beyond more of the same. Paul McCartney kept them in adequate material but the law of diminishing returns had already begun to set in. Even with that invaluable Lennon-McCartney stamp, their chart positions had begun to slip somewhat.

Perhaps with all this in mind, McCartney had the idea to have their names removed from the credits for Peter and Gordon's next single "Woman". Instead, it was credited to one 'Bernard Webb'. The song's composer wanted to see how it would perform free of The Beatles. Yeah, handing it over to an already established act, albeit one whose prominence was beginning to fade, might not have been the most accurate way of assessing it (he should've sought out a relatively obscure Canadian, Australian or Kiwi act or perhaps a hopeless Eurovision Song Contest entry from Austria or Denmark) but at least he was able to compare how P&G did with and without that formidable talisman.

So, about that. Everyone quickly found out the truth. This Bernard Webb fellow had been McCartney all along and no one was denying it. Needing another hit, I don't suppose Asher and Waller appreciated playing along with Macca's ruse and even if they did, the pair's management and record label weren't about to be so understanding in accommodating a songwriter's desire to test out a sociological experiment — and who can blame them?

The backstory of "Woman" is of some interest which is more than can be said for the record itself. The most generous account would be to say that it may have set McCartney on the path towards the baroque pop of his Revolver and Sgt Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band contributions but even that's pushing it. (He almost certainly would have gone that way regardless of this) Speaking of precedents, it also displays worrying signs of its composer's eventual creative slump in the early seventies. (But, again, he would have experienced this phase either way) So, let's just conclude by saying it's a trite time-waster of a single that proves once and for all that Lennon and McCartney never mastered the art of composing for anyone other than themselves.

Score: 3

The Beatles: "Nowhere Man"

March 28, 1966 (1 week)

Coming out of the breakup of The Beatles in 1970, John Lennon was doing pretty well for himself. Sure, former bandmates George Harrison and Ringo Starr were having the bigger hits out of the gate but he had healthy sales, critical acclaim and the approval of hip critics and fans. His old friend and songwriting partner Paul McCartney not so much. With legal battles dividing them, the pair of once close friends began going after one another. The two would take turns penning letters to the NME and Melody Maker for all to see and then Macca took it a step further with "Too Many People", a deep cut off of his second solo album Ram. While not nasty, the song's lyrics rip into "too many people preaching promises" which were directed at Lennon and his wife Yoko Ono.

Lennon's response dispensed with ambiguity altogether. On the Imagine album which dealt with peace, becoming a better person, honesty, the military and love, "How Do You Sleep?" was the petty odd one out on what is his finest solo work. (I am aware that most people nowadays opt for John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band but it can be a grim listen at times; whatsmore, I suspect that much of its praise is down more to its influence rather than its overall quality)  No doubt, he failed to anticipate the backlash. Rolling Stone magazine had been a staunch Lennon supporter but they described the song as "indefensible". The blowback was such that Lennon soon began to backpedal. Excuses like "McCartney started it" came forth before he eventually began the dubious claim that it was more about himself than anyone else. (I like to think that had I been a music journalist in the seventies that I would've posed the following very obvious follow-up question which no one seemed to bother with: "How so?")

The attack song was something Lennon did from time to time, "Sexy Sadie" from The White Album being perhaps the most notable. While he rips into the Maharishi over an alleged affair the Indian mystic had with a young woman at his ashram, it's more likely that the singer had become disillusioned with Transcendental Meditation since it hadn't cured him of his insecurities and self-loathing. In 1974, Lennon put out "Steel and Glass" on his rather overlooked Walls and Bridges album. This time the subject of his ire is his shady ex-manager Allan Klein. (I've always thought that "Baby, You're a Rich Man" is about previous manager Brian Epstein particularly given the homophobia and racism Lennon "jokingly" added)

To his credit, Lennon wasn't above going after himself and he did it much earlier. While compositions like "I'm a Loser" and "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party" suggest he could be his own harshest critic, "Nowhere Man" confirmed it. Struggling to get another song completed in the hasty run up to getting the Rubber Soul album ready for the Christmas '65 rush, Lennon gave up and went for a lie down in his mammoth mansion outside of London. He had everything he could ever want at his fingertips and yet all he could think about at that moment was about being a "real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land". From that, it pretty much wrote itself. He hadn't quite come to terms with it but "Nowhere Man" represents a point in which Lennon began to realize that the life of a wealthy pop star wasn't enough.

It is commonly suggested that there are three Beatles' songs which are perfectly suited to kids: "Yellow Submarine", "All Together Now" and "Octopus's Garden". While I can certainly see why they are classified as such, I don't really think of the latter two that way. "All Together Now" is more accurately a song for parents to sing to babies and/or toddlers; children over the age of around four aren't going to find much in it for them to explore. "Octopus's Garden", meanwhile, relies too much on its predecessor having done all the heavy lifting. Like "Yellow Submarine", it is sung by Ringo (who, notably, went on to narrate the Thomas the Tank Engine cartoon) and it uses a nautical theme but it lacks the sense of wonder and imagination. If anything, fellow Abbey Road tracks "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" and "Here Comes the Sun" have much more in them for youngsters.

In truth, a number of Fab Four songs have the potential to appeal to children. Most of the early Beatlemania tracks remain fun and exciting, the perfect thing for hyperactive kids to jump on the bed to, while the later psychedelic material has enough English whimsy and Lewis Carroll about it to keep youths interested. Then, there's the group's rhyme structure on numbers such as "Taxman", "Hello Goodbye" and, yes, "Nowhere Man". It no doubt also helped that the latter had a prominent place in the Yellow Submarine animated film, a picture that many kids from my generation grew up on and was their entree point for the band. (A young Sean Lennon had watched the movie at a friend's house and when he came home he asked his famous father, "were you in The Beatles?")

The Beatles encounter with Jeremy Hillary Boob in the Sea of Nothing (aka the Nowhere Land) is one of Yellow Submarine's more memorable spots. A brilliant polymath with a variety of books, compositions and works of art on the go, he never stops to take a breath let alone contemplate what he's been getting up to. Yet, he's friendly, self-deprecating ("if I spoke in prose you'd all find out, I don't know what I talk about") and tries to help John, Paul, George and Ringo out. Yet, they sing "Nowhere Man" to him which seems rather heartless.

But there's also some degree of empathy involved, which is something that the bulk of Lennon's future attack songs lack. "Isn't he a bit like you and me": the target of the singer's ire may well be humanity as a whole as we waste away our lives in bubbles of out own pettiness. The middle eight even tries to find some hope — "nowhere man, please listen...", "...take your time, don't hurry, leave it all til somebody else lends you a hand", the sort of sentiments that "How Do You Sleep?" could have done with. Lennon could be scathing but he also had a generous heart which is revealed both towards anyone he may have been having a go at and, crucially, himself.

Ironically, "Nowhere Man" only hastened Lennon's lethargy as his output diminished while his drug intake took off. As Ian Leslie suggests in his recent wonderful book John & Paul - A Love Story in Songs, this could well have been his intention all along. Rather than assuming he was bashing himself for not being as involved in London's underground arts scene as McCartney, he just as easily could have been looking down upon those who were getting too involved while he was content to sit much of it out. Future compositions "I'm Only Sleeping" and "Good Morning Good Morning" even find him making a virtue out of his sloth, something which seems hard to believe had he really been trying that hard to shake himself out of his slumber. (In any case, Lennon was still very much active throughout the bulk of 1965, even up to when he wrote "Nowhere Man"; it was only as the group's commitments tailed off in the early part of '66 that his layabout years began)

With soaring three-part harmonies, a rollicking bass part from McCartney that guides the tune while remaining in the background, yet another brilliant but unflashy performance from Starr and guitars that were starting to sound increasingly acid rock-influenced, "Nowhere Man" is stately, a minor masterpiece from a group whose vast achievements were beginning to sound increasingly routine. Critic Ian MacDonald's dismissiveness is in a way understandable — I, too, find that third go round of the middle eight to be a chore, especially since it's just a lazy rehash of the first one — but this song is far too good, far too engaging and far too important to be without. If not quite top tier Beatles, "Nowhere Man" is once again proof that they were well ahead of virtually everyone in pop, even when they weren't even trying all that hard.

Score: 9