Old Familiar Tunes: December 2025

Wednesday, 31 December 2025

The Spencer Davis Group: "I'm a Man"

May 13, 1967 (1 week)

Going out on a high note is something that many aspire towards but few manage to pull off. I imagine it's the kind of thing that's easier said than done. Since groups rarely tend to finish up while still on top, the majority are naturally at a disadvantage. Thus, the Bee Gees final hit single was 2001's "This Is Where I Came In", a respectable enough effort for such a late-stage release but it doesn't even hold up all that well next to eighties and nineties tracks like "You Win Again" and "For Whom the Bell Tolls", let alone their two-pronged peak from the late sixties and mid-to-late seventies.

Not surprisingly, the better grand finale singles are from short-lived acts. Wham! came to an end with "The Edge of Heaven" while The Jam closed up shop with "Beat Surrender": in both cases, they weren't quite top level songs but they each provided soft launches for George Michael's solo career and Paul Weller's next project The Style Council respectively. But the king of going out on a high note has to be the late Terry Hall. First, he and fellow bandmates Neville Staples and Lynval Golding quit The Specials while they were still at number one in Britain with the extraordinary hit "Ghost Town" but then he walked away from Fun Boy Three just two years later following the release of their version of The Go-Go's "Our Lips Are Sealed". Both are phenomenal singles with Hall subconsciously telling audiences that he was leaving while potentially their best material was still to come.

Steve Winwood would join and leave a handful of bands before eventually deciding to go solo in 1977 but it was only with The Spencer Davis Group that you could say he went out on top. (Blind Faith was never going to last more than one album so it hardly counts; his time with the on-again, off-again Traffic would have ended well had they finished with their masterpiece, 1970's John Barleycorn Must Die) Rather than pulling a Michael or a Weller by easing fans into what was to come with his next organization, he managed to succeed in bowing out while his band still had plenty left in the tank. Judging by "I'm a Man", the SDG could have easily carried on as a reliable chart act with plenty of critical standing for the remainder of the sixites — and, indeed, they may well have kept it up well into the following decade for all we know.

Actually, we do sort of know. While Steve Winwood was ready to explore acid rock, prog rock and jazz fusion with Traffic and his brother Muff was eyeing a more behind the scenes role in record company A&R, Spencer Davis himself wasn't as keen to pack things in. (This is a definite advantage to having the group named after himself) Not deterred in the least by having to replace Steve freakin' Winwood, he brought in Eddie Hardin who was no slouch himself but his time with the ground would be brief. Suffice it to say, the SDG didn't thrive as a revolving door with a figurehead leader on guitar.

With all due respect to Davis, Hardin and others (including drummer Pete York, who stuck it out for another year after the Winwoods' departure), The Spencer Davis Group as a going concern ended in the spring of 1967. And they happened to do so with the best song they ever recorded. A classic R&B groove holds "I'm a Man" together but it's that chorus that makes it so addictive. It may not need howling backing vocal sound effects and an excess of percussion piled on top for it to thrive but they don't detract from it either. It's damn-near impossible to keep up with Winwood's vocal - much less understand him — but, again, what does it matter when it's in service of a quartet giving it their all one last time.

Steve Winwood had only turned nineteen just the day before "I'm a Man" reached number one on the RPM singles chart. He wouldn't return to the top until he was knocking on the door of forty with a highly lucrative if creatively bankrupt pair of solo hits. This means we'll be missing out on his peak with the magnificent Traffic. Yet, "I'm a Man" is the first indication that he was reaching the level of Lennon, McCartney, Davies, Dylan, Gaye, Wonder and Wilson — and unlike many of them, he knew when to bow out. (For a while at any rate)

Score: 9

Nancy Sinatra and Frank Sinatra: "Somethin' Stupid"

May 6, 1967 (1 week)

Had social media in the sixties consisted of more than (a) two (or more) people speaking to one another face-to-face, (b) correspondence over the mail or (c) conversing on the telephone, it's quite possible that Nancy Sinatra would've been bashed as a nepo baby. I'm sure people knew that having a famous father opened doors for her — even if they may not have always been the doors she wished to have opened — and perhaps there had been resentment in some quarters that her connections gave her fame but this sort of criticism didn't seem to dog her. If anything, the fact that she and longtime collaborator Lee Hazelwood struggled to have a hit prior to "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" suggests that daddy's pull was either ineffectual or nonexistent.

With Frank Sinatra, he too had been coming off a US and UK number one smash from a year earlier with "Strangers in the Night" (which could do no better than number three in Canada). While no longer quite the transcendent figure he had been in the forties and fifties, Sinatra could still sell out venues around the world. Thus, it wasn't as if either of them really needed the other to sell a pop song. Fans of Nancy's probably weren't clamouring for records from Old Blue Eyes — and vice versa. It turns out, Frank didn't even need his glamourous daughter for their supposed duet "Somethin' Stupid".

Vying for crossover appeal must have been the reason for why she's even on this thing. Nancy is just a glorified backing vocalist and one, it must be added, who doesn't sound particularly excited to be there. Singing a song about a romance between a couple with your dad couldn't have made her comfortable and it's possible she wasn't especially thrilled to be going in the direction of MOR pop at such a crucial point in her career. This is where the idea of a crossover falls flat on its face: despite having her name credited first, this is a Frank Sinatra solo record in name only, one that barely has room for Nancy much less in attempting to accommodate her style.

There's a heavy doling of intimacy on the original "Something Stupid", sung by composer C. Carson Parks (the brother of eccentric singer-songwriter and Brian Wilson collaborator Van Dyke Parks) and his wife Gaile Foote. The pair sound like they're whispering the lines to each other as if it's all a big secret. It's a nice recording, one that has the duo singing the same lines while seemingly communicating different messages to each other. In his case, it's the more literal sense of feeling turning a lovely evening into something awkward by spoiling it with the L word; for her, she knows that in spilling her heart out, she's about to relinquish the power in the relationship. Parks and Foote also communicate an obvious fondness for one another, something that the Sinatras fail to do.

Frank Sinatra's status in the world of showbusiness was such that he wasn't about to take suggestions from anyone beyond maybe Nelson Riddle. His daughter? Forget about it. This is a shame since the parallel universe scenario of Lee Hazelwood composing a far more appropriate single for the pair is tantalizing. It could have catered to Frank's talents while also bringing out the best in Nancy. Instead, we get a typically good Frank vocal with little else of note going on. And not only was Nancy poorly utilized but "Somethin' Stupid" also coincided with the end of her days as a top pop diva. So, not only did her dad do little to help her get started but he also may have played a part in her premature decline. See? It's not as easy being a nepo baby as some would have you believe.

Score: 4

Tuesday, 30 December 2025

Young Canada Singers: "Canada"

April 22, 1967 (2 weeks)

I was born in 1977 so, naturally, I came along far too late to appreciate Canada's centennial. Nevertheless, its legacy has carried on, not the least of which may be found in the numerous malls, monuments and parks spread throughout the country with the name 'Confederation'. I grew up just a stone's throw from Calgary's Confederation Park. Not coincidentally, it opened in 1967.

'67 was a year of change. Canada's two main political lions of the age, Conservative John Diefenbaker and Liberal Lester B. Pearson, both resigned, making them the last two Canadian prime ministers to be born in the nineteenth century (no wonder the incoming forty-eight year old Pierre Trudeau was seen as a fresh, young upstart). The venerable six-team NHL was about to come to an end - and with it, the demise of the Toronto Maple Leafs as a dominant franchise. The big event of the year was Expo '67 in Montreal which was praised as the finest world's fair to date and one that arguably set the standard for such expositions as a point of pride among host nations and cities. (The city that was then still the world's second largest Francophone metro would be granted a Major League Baseball expansion team two years later and, what with Kansas City already declaring dibs on 'Royals', 'Expos' was the logical choice, even if it makes next to no sense as a sports team name)

I grew up knowing about more or less all of these facts but the theme song for Canada's birthday bash was something no one ever bothered to inform me about. It never seemed to crop up on oldies radio, not even on the CBC's Finkleman's 45's, and has rarely been included on compilations (aside from a pair released at around the same time). It's as if "Canada" is the one thing people would like you to forget about that most memorable of all years.

It would be easy to dismiss it as a cheesy bit of pointless patriotism — which, to be sure, it is — but I'd like to take some time to apologize for it and/or find something of worth first. Sure, the Young Canada Singers sound like they might as well have been chanting endless praise to Chairman Mao in the midst of the Cultural Revolution (which was underway by this point) but I buy these kids. They sound coached but not to an insulting degree. Songwriter — and (ahem) "Pied Piper of Canada" — Bobby Gimby might have given some consideration to lyrics that children might have actually sang and/or spoken themselves. That said, he had already proven to be a master of nationalist propaganda songs with "Malaysia Forever" and "Canada" is an improvement on that bit of banal dross.

The other positive thing to say is that the opening isn't awful. The first ten seconds bounce along quite agreeably in fact. It has a nice swing beat that wouldn't have been out of place from one of the better entrants on a Eurovision Song Contest of the age. Then, it begins to unravel with the choir. There, I've done my best describing everything I don't hate about it. Yet, I will say I was expecting a great deal worse. It isn't quite "Purple People Eater"/"Paper Roses"/Snoopy vs. the Red Baron" levels of badness which I suppose is something of a win!

And, if nothing else, at least it ended a near year-and-a-half long drought of Canadians failing to top their national singles chart. But could pop and rock follow suit? They'd be coming along soon but there'd still be a bit more of a wait.

Score: 2

Monday, 29 December 2025

The Monkees: "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You"

April 1, 1967 (3 weeks)

"Probably the worst album in the history of the world".

— Michael Nesmith

No, the one with the toque wasn't talking about Lou Reed's insane feedback-fest Metal Machine Music. Nor was assessing Having Fun with Elvis on Stage, the notorious Elvis Presley live album of between-song banter and a distinct lack of music. What about nineties' over-hyped disasters like The Stone Roses' Second Coming or Oasis' Be Here Now? Nope, not them either.

No, the album that Nesmith hated so much was More of the Monkees, the mundanely named followed up to their self-titled debut. Few would agree with him. First, it sold like mad. It replaced its huge-selling predecessor at the top of the American album charts and stayed there for eighteen very long weeks. Fans tend to prefer it too - even if they'd in turn opt for later releases like Headquarters and Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones Ltd. (I'm less crazy about it but, then again, I'm happy just listening to a decent Monkees' best of rather than any of their studio releases)

Yet, he had a point. As the title suggests, it was little more than a cash grab from their self-titled debut release as well as their hit TV sit com. There are a handful of gems — the garage rock "She" and "(I'm Not Your) Stepping Stone", the Nesmith original "Mary, Mary" — but it is scattered and directionless. Basically, it has everything that made The Monkees so charming as well as what made them mildly irritating. More of the Monkees nevertheless dominated the album charts for the first half of 1967 but the group wasn't putting up with being puppets any longer. Nesmith led the revolt with Mickey Dolenz, Davy Jones and Peter Tork backing him up. Amazingly, the higher ups capitulated - or so they thought.

"A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You" is a final piece of moronic Monkee pop before the band had their first manager Don Kirshner ousted. In the aftermath of More of the Monkees, their record label had already agreed to allow them a considerable amount of creative control moving forward but Kirshner went against their directive and had this piece of shit released anyway. Making matters worse was the fact that the intended B side, the Nesmith-penned "The Girl I Knew Somewhere" which The Monkees actually played on, ended up being turfed from the Canadian release in favour of Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich's "She Hangs Out". (To be fair, they couldn't have been too unhappy with Kirshner's power play since they ended up re-recording "She Hangs Out" for Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones and ended up having the last laugh in the process by doing far more with it than the studio pros could manage)

Having cheeky chappy Davy Jones on lead for the first time may have been a good way to handle such a passive-aggressive lyric. (For all of his strengths as a rather underrated vocalist, the material wouldn't have suited Mickey Dolenz whose disdain would've shown through) Still, he fails to fully convince that he's making a good faith effort at some middle ground in the face of a crumbling relationship. His case isn't aided by his feigned ignorance ("don't know, just what I said wrong...") nor his condescending "yes, you may have a point" tone ("I'm a little bit wrong and you're a little bit right..."). Jones was the cute one but that only underscores what a nasty song it is. (Also, what was up with them quoting themselves so soon? "We've got things to say" is an obvious nod to their their theme song and if it was clear they were woefully lacking in such depth then, this feeble attempt only confirms it)

Worse, though, is the tune which is hopeless. Just as Tom Ewing has acknowledged that "Mama Mia" is the ABBA song in which the haters at least have a bit of a case, "A Little Bit Me..." is The Monkees' number which best encapsulates the distaste with which they are still held (at least in come circles). If "I'm a Believer" had been a noticeable, if not crippling, step in the wrong direction following "Last Train to Clarksville", their third RPM number one has them falling off a creative cliff. Neil Diamond had written its predecessor and must have been so pleased with it that he didn't do anything different this time round.Those child-like organ parts may have worked the first time but now they grate. The Bo Diddley-esque acoustic guitar that guides it might well be its one real selling point but otherwise this is dismal.

Fortunately, that promised freedom wasn't to be denied The Monkees any longer. Yet, "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You" was still yet another massive hit for them. It's counter-intuitive to take a band that was racking up hits and, as Beach Boy Mike Love famously put it, "fuck with the formula" so brazenly but The Monkees almost seemed designed for such bouts of self-sabotage. Don't get me wrong, they made the right decision in siding with Nasmith and his bandmates but it was risky and isn't to be expected of svengalis dealing with a group that they manufactured. Plus, there were still more twists and turns ahead: we're only at the halfway point of The Monkees' incredible, inconsistent and incomprehensible imperial period.

Score: 3

Tuesday, 23 December 2025

The Beatles: "Penny Lane"

March 25, 1967 (1 week)

"Anyone unlucky enough not to have been aged between 14 and 30 during 1966-7 will never know the excitement of those years in popular culture."

— Ian MacDonald

Yes, it's true: those of us "unlucky" to have been born outside the window from 1936 to 1953 will never have the opportunity to experience this level of excitement first hand. (We also didn't have to live through the era of tuna and lime jello salads as luxury dining so it's not all bad though) Instead, we had the chance to swallow it up whole.

I am a second generation Beatles' fan. Only for the first three-and-a-half years of my life did I live in a world in which they were all still alive. The earliest association I have with John Lennon is that he was that he was dead. (He was probably the first person I can recall being dead and this was a year or two away from discovering that I, too, will one day die) The eighties became the decade in which unspeakable tragedy brought The Beatles back only for the pop scene to carry on having as little to do with them as possible before eventually accepting that there was simply no getting rid of them.

The Fab Four discography was in a shambles during my youth. Those weird seventies' compilations — Rock and Roll Music, Ballads — were still available as were the American albums. No one seemed to own the entire catalog. My mum had a half dozen old records that looked like they'd been played and scratched to death but did have newer copies of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the 1962-1966 and 1967-1970 compilations and, for some reason, Beatles '65. She also had Rubber Soul, Hey Jude and Rock and Roll Music on tape. This meant that I had much to explore but far from the whole thing. (It wouldn't hear The White Album in full until I was eighteen when Mum gave it to me on CD for Christmas) Rather than getting into them chronologically, I made due with what was made available to me. Not ideal but at least I never lived through the rush of Beatlemania which left fans prone to eventual — if misguided — disappointment.

~~~~~

The time between the release of the Revolver album and their first single of 1967 was by far the biggest gap since The Beatles reign began. For much of late '66, the foursome went their separate ways. Famously, John Lennon accepted a role in a movie which led to him spending several weeks in Spain where he began wearing his trademark granny glasses. It was also where he worked on "Strawberry Fields Forever". Returning to England that November, he presented his latest composition to the others who were immediately impressed by it. Paul McCartney then went off and wrote his reply "Penny Lane". Both songs were inspired by their childhoods spent in Liverpool though from suitably different perspectives. Yet, they're very much two sides of the same coin (or, better yet, two sides of the same 45). Whatsmore, it marked a turning point: far from being from Liverpool, now The Beatles were Liverpool.

On any given day, it is said that you can spot tourists from all over the world wandering around Liverpool in search of The Beatles. I'm sure the majority are aware that Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr no longer reside there — or, indeed, that none of the Fab Four have made Merseyside their permanent homes in over sixty years. Yet, visitors still turn up to see where they grew up, where they went to school and where they cut their teeth as just another struggling band who happened to go on to become the biggest thing in popular music. Visitors to London, Hamburg and New York may also take Beatles' guided tours but Liverpool has the lion's share of the landmarks and is probably the one to go to. (Though, admittedly, I wouldn't know since I've never been on one)

But beyond simply taking in the spotless middle class home of John Lennon and a replica of The Cavern, more adventuresome types may also indulge in visiting spots mentioned in Beatles' songs. In truth, there aren't all that many, with arguably the two best known sites coming from both sides of the same single. While the Salvation Army-run Strawberry Field — just a stone's thrown from the Lennon home — might still retain a mysteriousness that shrouds the song of (almost) the same name, there's no way on earth that the real Penny Lane manages to evoke the sunshine absurdity of McCartney's composition. If there happens to be a nurse selling poppies from a tray then she'll only be there in the fortnight or so leading up to Remembrance Day. Curious tourists may pop into the Tony Slavin barbershop to see if they do indeed have photos of "every head [they've] had the pleasure to know" but that's the case with every hair salon the world over. (Had "Penny Lane" been written a few years later by a North American it could easily have had a line about the drycleaner with "every celebrity headshot they've had the pleasure to know", even though it isn't quite as catchy)

If the real Penny Lane is indeed a disappointment to tourists then you can bet that they'd sooner blame the Liverpool town council and/or visitor board than The Beatles themselves, which may not be entirely fair. While Merseyside may wish to brand itself to the Fabs, there's no possible way they could recreate the area to satisfy the song that immortalizes it. This extraordinary composition paints a picture of a world that never really existed beyond the mind of its creator. Penny Lane may be in his "ears" and in his "eyes" but it is so far gone from any real person's interaction either then or now to be unrecognizable.

For all of its plaudits, "Penny Lane" is somehow still the weaker side of what is The Beatles' finest single. Paul's song is glorious and it should be listened to on as close to a daily basis as possible but "Strawberry Fields Forever" is simply streets ahead of anything a pop mind has ever come up with. Yet, young fans weren't ready for either of them. They were unprepared for how unusual their sound had become but they were equally bemused by the way the group looked with their mustaches and psychedelic gear. Though listeners grew up with The Beatles and could go along with how they had changed, in this instance many weren't ready. They had long since left much of their competition in the dust and now even loyal followers were being left behind — if only temporarily.

Thus, this brilliant double A side broke a lengthy run of consecutive UK chart toppers, managing a peak of just number two. Meanwhile in North America, the two were split up. On the Hot 100, "Penny Lane" gave The Beatles yet another US number one while its companion managed to go no higher than number eight. On RPM, it was much the same, except that "Strawberry Fields" didn't even merit its own chart position. Being at the top of the charts in both the United States and Canada is fair enough but it could only manage one week on top. (While single week number ones was still commonplace in '67, the massively inferior usurper to "Penny Lane" managed to hold on to the top spot for three weeks, as we'll be seeing soon) Even at their breeziest, peak-of-powers best, The Beatles couldn't dazzle everyone everywhere, ludicrous though this may be to those of us second and third generation fans who really did grow up with them.

Score: 10