Today, once again, I get to treat myself to a single side I have owned for 45 years without giving it a listen. The disclaimer is that my way of doing things back then would have caused me to play the song as soon as I got it, but I remember pointedly ignoring this 45 every time it surfaced in the box, for reasons only three-year-old caithiseach could divulge. On this particular point, he’s keeping silent.
I do have one small set of tidbits to share about “Reason for Love” by Davi (Stark 110). In my search for information on the label, the song and the artist, I came across a guy in Brooklyn, Bobby, who stated in a forum post that “Reason for Love” is one of his favorite songs. I’ll listen to it in a moment, and then I’ll know why.
Sounds like old R&B, 6/8 time, doo-wop, sort of like “Sixteen Candles.” Occasional falsetto. Not bad. It was most likely too slow for three-year-old caithiseach to endure.
What I learned about the songwriters, F. Hill and D. Svitenko, is that they were in a band together in the Northeastern U.S. I’ve lost the details of that tidbit, because I didn’t write down the information when I first saw it. Now, my searches aren’t giving me the same results. Sorry about that.
Will I now play this 45 often? I’ll perhaps play “Go Charley Go” from time to time, but “Reason for Love” will show up when I make my next compilation of my old 45s, and that’s about it. I’m glad Bobby in Brooklyn likes it. Here’s the link to the song, after which I have more to say today:
Davi, Reason for Love
Since I can’t tell you which band included Hill and Svitenko, or the names of other songs they wrote, I figure I should appease you with more information about two aspects of this blog to which I refer often.
First, here are two photos of the former Big Top department store, where my Uncle Tom bought me all those 45s all those years ago. They are recent shots, from my August trip home for my high-school reunion. If you are kind enough to take a moment to look at them, you may gain some understanding of why I speak so nostalgically about the place. Photo 1 Photo 2
And second, I mentioned my affinity for the hits of 1970 a couple of weeks ago. I said I thought there was an unusually high concentration of classic tunes on the 1970 Top 40 charts, and that, as a result, I had collected more songs from 1970 than from any other year. While I had acquired every Top 40 hit from 2006 and 2007, that was easy, thanks to iTunes, Rhapsody and SpiralFrog. Most of my 1970 songs came long before I started buying digital files, however.
Since I owned 2006-07 complete, it seemed a shame not to have all of 1970. I identified 20 or so songs I didn’t own, and I bought them. If I counted correctly, I now own the 244 songs that debuted in 1970, the 12 flip sides that appeared on the charts paired with their A side, and the 36 songs that carried over from 1969. I counted 38 One-Hit Wonders, as well as 3 songs that spent just one week in the Top 40 (all by artists with at least one other hit).
In case you are collecting old recordings and would like a handy checklist of all 1970 Top 40 hits, here it is. The songs are listed by debut date, and the number to the left is each song’s debut position. I hope this list is useful to someone out there. It's long, so I may snip it out in a couple of weeks.
Next time, I’ll bring you a rock-and-roll classic, as well as what amounts to a 1956 fusion recording that features a vocalist who made it sort of big—thirteen years later. See you Wednesday!
1969 legacy hits on 1/3/1970:
1 Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head/Thomas, B.J.
2 Leaving on a Jet Plane/Peter, Paul & Mary
3 Someday We'll Be Together/Ross, Diana/Supremes
4 Down on the Corner/CCR
5 Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye/Steam
6 Whole Lotta Love/Led Zeppelin
7 I Want You Back/Jackson 5
8 Venus/Shocking Blue
9 Holly Holy/Diamond, Neil
10 La La La (If I Had You)/Sherman, Bobby
11 Midnight Cowboy/Ferrante & Teicher
12 Come Together/Beatles
13 Jam Up Jelly Tight/Roe, Tommy
14 Eli's Coming/Three Dog Night
15 Don't Cry Daddy/Presley, Elvis
16 Take a Letter Maria/Greaves, R.B.
17 Jingle Jangle/Archies
18 Early in the Morning/Vanity Fare
19 Backfield in Motion/Mel and Tim
20 And When I Die/Blood, Sweat & Tears
21 These Eyes/Walker, Jr. & All-Stars
22 Evil Woman Don't Play Your Games with Me/Crow
23 Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday/Wonder, Stevie
24 Friendship Train/Knight, Gladys & the Pips
25 Up on Cripple Creek/The Band
26 Smile a Little Smile for Me/Flying Machine
27 A Brand New Me/Springfield, Dusty
28 She/James, Tommy and the Shondells
30 Baby, I'm for Real/Originals
31 Ain't It Funky Now Pt. 1/Brown, James
32 Wedding Bell Blues/5th Dimension
33 Cold Turkey/Plastic Ono Band
34 Cherry Hill Park/Royal, Billy Joe
36 Heaven Knows/Grass Roots
37 Wonderful World, Beautiful People/Cliff, Jimmy
39 Point It Out/Robinson, Smokey & Miracles
1/3/1970 debuts:
29 Without Love (There Is Nothing)/Jones, Tom
35 Winter World of Love/Humperdinck, Engelbert
38 She Belongs to Me/Nelson, Rick
40 I'll Never Fall in Love Again/Warwick, Dionne
1/10/1970
34 Arizona/Lindsay, Mark
35 Hey There Lonely Girl/Holman, Eddie
39 She Came in Through the Bathroom Window/Cocker, Joe
40 Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)/Sly & the Family Stone
1/17/1970
31 Walk a Mile in My Shoes/South, Joe
36 Walkin' in the Rain/Jay & the Americans
39 No Time/Guess Who
1/24/1970
31 Blowing Away/5th Dimension
36 Baby Take Me in Your Arms/Jefferson
37 Let's Work Together/Harrison, Wilbert
38 Psychedelic Shack/Temptations
39 Cupid/Nash, Johnny
40 Part Two (Let a Man Come In and Do the Popcorn)/Brown, James
1/31/1970
30 Honey Come Back/Campbell, Glen
32 The Thrill Is Gone/King, B.B.
34 Rainy Night in Georgia/Benton, Brook
39 Fancy/Gentry, Bobbie
2/7/1970
18 Travelin' Band/CCR
28 Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)/Delfonics
33 Ma Belle Amie/Tee Set
34 Oh Me Oh My (I'm a Fool for You Baby)/Lulu
35 He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother/Hollies
36 One Tin Soldier/Original Caste
37 Give Me Just a Little More Time/Chairmen of the Board
39 Monster/Steppenwolf
40 Evil Ways/Santana
2/14/1970
13 Bridge Over Troubled Water/Simon & Garfunkel
24 The Rapper/Jaggerz
35 Breaking Up Is Hard to Do/Welch, Lenny
36 Always Something There to Remind Me/Greaves, R.B.
2/21/1970
30 House of the Rising Sun/Frijid Pink
37 Never Had a Dream Come True/Wonder, Stevie
38 If I Were a Carpenter/Cash, Johnny & June Carter
39 Jennifer Tomkins/Street People
40 Kentucky Rain/Presley, Elvis
2/28/1970
24 Call Me/Franklin, Aretha
28 Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)/Edison Lighthouse
31 Gotta Hold On to This Feeling/Walker, Jr. & All-Stars
35 Do the Funky Chicken/Thomas, Rufus
38 Easy Come, Easy Go/Sherman, Bobby
40 It's a New Day Pts. 1 & 2/Brown, James
3/7/1970
33 Instant Karma!/Lennon, John
34 Celebrate/Three Dog Night
37 The Bells/Originals
38 Come and Get It/Badfinger
39 Spirit in the Sky/Greenbaum, Norman
3/14/1970
36 All I Have to Do Is Dream/Campbell, Glen/Bobbie Gentry
37 Something's Burning/Rogers, Kenny & First Edition
39 Up the Ladder to the Roof/Supremes
3/21/1970
6 Let It Be/Beatles
14 ABC/Jackson 5
38 Love or Let Me Be Lonely/Friends of Distinction
39 Shilo/Diamond, Neil
3/28/1970
32 Tennessee Bird Walk/Blanchard, Jack/Misty Morgan
34 American Woman/Guess Who
35 Long Lonesome Highway/Parks, Michael
37 You're the One/Little Sister
39 Temma Harbour/Hopkin, Mary
40 Who's Your Baby?/Archies
4/4/1970
31 Reflections of My Life/Marmalade
32 Turn Back the Hands of Time/Davis, Tyrone
35 Woodstock/Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
36 Get Ready/Rare Earth
37 You Need Love Like I Do (Don't You)/Knight, Gladys & the Pips
4/11/1970
37 Everybody's Out of Town/Thomas, B.J.
38 Vehicle/Ides of March
39 For the Love of Him/Martin, Bobbi
40 Little Green Bag/Baker, George Selection
4/18/1970
37 Everything Is Beautiful/Stevens, Ray
38 Cecelia/Simon & Garfunkel
40 Love on a Two-Way Street/Moments
4/25/1970
31 What Is Truth/Cash, Johnny
35 Airport Love Theme/Bell, Vincent
38 Which Way You Goin' Billy?/Poppy Family
39 Come Running/Morrison, Van
40 Make Me Smile/Chicago
5/2/1970
30 Up Around the Bend/CCR
36 Viva Tirado/El Chicano
37 Reach Out and Touch (Somebody's Hand)/Ross, Diana
38 Puppet Man/5th Dimension
40 Come Saturday Morning/Sandpipers
5/9/1970
26 The Letter/Cocker, Joe
31 Daughter of Darkness/Jones, Tom
38 Hey Lawdy Mama/Steppenwolf
39 Let Me Go to Him/Warwick, Dionne
40 Oh Happy Day/Campbell, Glen
5/16/1970
33 Soolaimon (African Trilogy II)/Diamond, Neil
36 Hitchin' a Ride/Vanity Fare
39 Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)/Melanie
5/23/1970
26 My Baby Loves Lovin'/White Plains
30 United We Stand/Brotherhood of Man
33 Brother Rapp Pts. 1 & 2/Brown, James
35 The Long and Winding Road/Beatles
36 The Wonder of You/Presley, Elvis
38 Ride Captain Ride/Blues Image
40 Sugar Sugar/Pickett, Wilson
5/30/1970
29 Question/Moody Blues
37 Band of Gold/Payne, Freda
38 It's All in the Game/Four Tops
40 Love Land/Wright, Charles
6/6/1970
15 The Love You Save/Jackson 5
24 Ball of Confusion/Temptations
33 Mama Told Me (Not to Come)/Three Dog Night
38 Gimme Dat Ding/Pipkins
39 Hey, Mister Sun/Sherman, Bobby
40 (You've Got Me) Dangling on a String/Chairmen of the Board
6/13/1970
34 Spirit in the Dark/Franklin, Aretha
37 Mississippi Queen/Mountain
39 Check Out Your Mind/Impressions
40 Baby Hold On/Grass Roots
6/20/1970
32 A Song of Joy/Rios, Miguel
34 Are You Ready?/Pacific Gas & Electric
35 O-O-H Child/Five Stairsteps
37 Westbound #9/Flaming Ember
38 Teach Your Children/Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
39 I Want to Take You Higher/Sly & the Family Stone
40 Mississippi/Phillips, John
6/27/1970
36 Save the Country/5th Dimension
37 (They Long to Be) Close to You/Carpenters
40 Go Back/Crabby Appleton
7/4/1970
20 Tighter, Tighter/Alive and Kicking
39 Signed, Sealed, Delivered I'm Yours/Wonder, Stevie
7/11/1970
20 Make It with You/Bread
30 Ohio/Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
36 I Just Can't Help Believing/Thomas, B.J.
38 Spill the Wine/Burdon, Eric & War
39 Silver Bird/Lindsay, Mark
40 The End of Our Road/Gaye, Marvin
7/18/1970
37 Lay a Little Lovin' on Me/McNamara, Robin
38 Steal Away/Taylor, Johnnie
7/25/1970
25 War/Starr, Edwin
26 Why Can't I Touch You?/Dyson, Ronnie
32 In the Summertime/Mungo Jerry
38 Maybe/Three Degrees
39 Tell It All Brother/Rogers, Kenny & First Edition
40 Trying to Make a Fool of Me/Delfonics
8/1/1970
28 Overture from Tommy/Assembled Multitude
29 Patches/Carter, Clarence
30 Get Up (I Feel Like Being Like a) Sex Machine/Brown, James
33 Summertime Blues/Who
34 The Sly, Slick and the Wicked/Lost Generation
37 Everybody's Got the Right to Love/Supremes
38 25 or 6 to 4/Chicago
39 Do You See My Love (For You Growing)/Walker, Jr. & the All-Stars
8/8/1970
30 Big Yellow Taxi/Neighborhood
35 Hand Me Down World/Guess Who
38 I Want to Take You Higher/Turner, Ike & Tina
40 Groovy Situation/Chandler, Gene
8/15/1970
23 Lookin' Out My Back Door/CCR
25 Hi-De-Ho/Blood, Sweat & Tears
26 Ain't No Mountain High Enough/Ross, Diana
34 Solitary Man/Diamond, Neil
38 Julie, Do Ya Love Me/Sherman, Bobby
8/22/1970
23 Don't Play That Song/Franklin, Aretha
36 I've Lost You/Presley, Elvis
37 (I Know) I'm Losing You/Rare Earth
38 Snowbird/Murray, Anne
40 It's a Shame/Spinners
8/29/1970
29 I (Who Have Nothing)/Jones, Tom
33 Candida/Dawn
36 Rubber Duckie/Ernie
40 Cracklin' Rosie/Diamond, Neil
9/5/1970
35 Closer to Home/Grand Funk Railroad
36 Joanne/Nesmith, Michael
37 Peace Will Come (According to Plan)/Melanie
38 Neanderthal Man/Hotlegs
40 All Right Now/Free
9/12/1970
31 Long Long Time/Ronstadt, Linda
35 Out in the Country/Three Dog Night
38 Everything's Tuesday/Chairman [sic] of the Board
39 Express Yourself/Wright, Charles
40 Lola/Kinks
9/19/1970
34 Look What They've Done to My Song, Ma/New Seekers
35 Indiana Wants Me/Taylor, R. Dean
37 That's Where I Went Wrong/Poppy Family
39 Green-Eyed Lady/Sugarloaf
40 I'll Be There/Jackson 5
9/26/1970
37 It's Only Make Believe/Campbell, Glen
38 El Condor Pasa/Simon & Garfunkel
39 Still Water (Love)/Four Tops
40 Fire and Rain/Taylor, James
10/3/1970
18 We've Only Just Begun/Carpenters
37 Somebody's Been Sleeping/100 Proof Aged in Soul
39 Do What You Wanna Do/Five Flights Up
40 Stand by Your Man/Staton, Candi
10/10/1970
35 Our House/Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
36 It Don't Matter to Me/Bread
37 Lucretia Mac Evil/Blood, Sweat & Tears
39 Deeper & Deeper/Payne, Freda
10/17/1970
30 God, Love and Rock & Roll/Teegarden & Van Winkle
34 Super Bad Pts. 1 & 2/Brown, James
38 Ungena Za Ulimwengu (Unite the World)/Temptations
39 See Me, Feel Me/Who
40 Montego Bay/Bloom, Bobby
10/24/1970
28 Cry Me a River/Cocker, Joe
29 Engine Number 9/Pickett, Wilson
39 Gypsy Woman/Hyland, Brian
40 Yellow River/Christie
10/31/1970
17 I Think I Love You/Partridge Family
27 The Tears of a Clown/Robinson, Smokey/Miracles
39 Make It Easy on Yourself/Warwick, Dionne
40 Heaven Help Us All/Wonder, Stevie
11/7/1970
33 Let's Work Together/Canned Heat
34 As the Years Go By/Mashmakhan
35 Share the Land/Guess Who
38 You Don't Have to Say You Love Me/Presley, Elvis
40 For the Good Times/Price, Ray
11/14/1970
30 5-10-15-20 (25-30 Years of Love)/Presidents
35 After Midnight/Clapton, Eric
39 I Am Somebody Pt. II/Taylor, Johnnie
40 Heed the Call/Rogers, Kenny and the First Edition
11/21/1970
22 Stoned Love/Supremes
28 One Less Bell to Answer/5th Dimension
36 No Matter What/Badfinger
37 Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?/Chicago
38 He Ain't Heavy…He's My Brother/Diamond, Neil
40 Black Magic Woman/Santana
11/28/1970
35 Be My Baby/Kim, Andy
39 Can't Stop Loving You/Jones, Tom
40 I'm Not My Brother's Keeper/Flaming Ember
12/5/1970
13 My Sweet Lord/Harrison, George
27 Domino/Morrison, Van
33 Knock Three Times/Dawn
35 Only Love Can Break Your Heart/Young, Neil
36 It's Impossible/Como, Perry
39 One Man Band/Three Dog Night
40 Do It/Diamond, Neil
12/12/1970
30 Groove Me/Floyd, King
32 Pay to the Piper/Chairmen of the Board
35 River Deep-Mountain High/Supremes & Four Tops
36 Immigrant Song/Led Zeppelin
40 Stoney End/Streisand, Barbra
12/19/1970
32 If I Were Your Woman/Knight, Gladys & the Pips
37 Border Song (Holy Moses)/Franklin, Aretha
38 Your Song/John, Elton
39 Love the One You're With/Stills, Stephen
40 Rose Garden/Anderson, Lynn
12/26/1970
26 Lonely Days/Bee Gees
39 Games/Redeye
40 We Gotta Get You a Woman/Runt
Showing posts with label 1960s. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1960s. Show all posts
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
A Wilde Tyme
For the past couple of weeks, I have talked about 45s whose artists had names that made searching for information on them a laborious process. In the cases of Michael Allen and the Baby Dolls, I couldn’t find much pertinent information amid the white noise of other Michael Allens and Baby Dollses.
But at least those 45s were Survivors—records that made it through the Great Meltdown and have lived for the past 36 years in a box that I have carefully kept out of the sun. Not so with today’s song, which was both a Victim of the Great Meltdown and extremely difficult to locate because of the artist’s name.
At first glance, the name Tony Wilde would seem to be easier to work with than Michael Allen for search purposes. Not as easy as Márta Sebestyén, of course, or Tarig Abubakar, but easier than Michael Allen.
I learned, though, that around the time I started searching online for today’s 45, that a Tony Wilde was involved with auto racing. Now there’s one who races a Kawasaki, one who competes in 10K races, and a young actor. I had a song title, but it was a common enough phrase that I still had to do a lot of sifting. Then, finally, I remembered the label for which Tony Wilde had recorded, and I found what I was after.
“Whisper to Me” (Gardena 101) was the side three-year-old caithiseach played more often on this 45, though its designation as 101-2 makes it seem to be the intended B side. The gentle vocals and backing track kept the song from becoming one of my favorites, but it was memorable enough for me to recall it easily when I started looking for replacement 45s several years ago.
My memory of the label itself helped me figure out what to search for online. I remembered a white label with the figures from a deck of cards—hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades—arranged so as to hold the letters of the label’s name, Gardena Records. There is also a logo of a hand holding a royal flush. I turns out that Gardena, California had legalized card gambling at a time when such things were rarely legal, so by the time the label came into being in 1960, cards were Gardena’s main claim to fame.
Tony Wilde enjoyed considerable success on Gardena. He was around from the start, since the first Gardena single was numbered 100 and Tony logged number 101. He also released #107, “John Henry”/“There’s a Star-Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere” in 1960. After that . . . well, his singles didn’t sell, so we’re done considering his success.
Gardena as a whole was just slightly more successful. The label logged a #38 One-Week Wonder, “Like, Long Hair” by Paul Revere and the Raiders (Gardena 116). If Paul Revere Dick hadn’t driven down from Portland, Oregon to blanket the L.A.-area labels with his demo, it’s hard to say if Gardena would have found a hit artist at any point. The label released 39 singles through 1963, and that was that.
“Whisper to Me” was written by Rusty Nail. Rusty Nail has 54 titles under his belt on the BMI site, including “Whisper to Me.” Often, these old songs aren’t showing up with active registrations, so I was pleased to find that Mr. Nail has been keeping his registrations up to date, though it’s no longer linked to Class Publishing or any other publisher. There’s a business opportunity for you. Rusty Nail seems to specialize in songs about wine, bottles, devils, crying, fools, freight trains and whispering. As mournful as most of these topics are, “Whisper to Me” is a love song that doesn’t touch on infidelity, alcoholism or body parts severed on railroad tracks. So it’s all good.
Both sides of this record were arranged and directed (read: produced) by Jack Marshall. There is a good likelihood that the Jack Marshall in question was a guitar player who started producing records for Capitol in the 1950s. He scored some monster flicks beginning in 1958, and then he wound up composing for TV. He’s responsible for one of my favorite themes, for The Munsters. A producing gig with Gardena records in 1960 would fit perfectly into his music trajectory, so I’m fairly confident that I found the right guy. If so, he was born in 1921 and died at age 51 in 1973. He was the father of Frank Marshall, who has produced Raiders of the Lost Ark and a pile of other superb films.
There’s not a lot of information available about Tony Wilde or the people who helped him put this single together. Even so, I decided to split this song from its A side, because the song, while not exceptional, isn’t a complete throwaway. I do hope you enjoy it, and Saturday I’ll bring you a more amusing tune by Mr. Wilde. See you on the flip side!
Tony Wilde, Whisper to Me
But at least those 45s were Survivors—records that made it through the Great Meltdown and have lived for the past 36 years in a box that I have carefully kept out of the sun. Not so with today’s song, which was both a Victim of the Great Meltdown and extremely difficult to locate because of the artist’s name.
At first glance, the name Tony Wilde would seem to be easier to work with than Michael Allen for search purposes. Not as easy as Márta Sebestyén, of course, or Tarig Abubakar, but easier than Michael Allen.
I learned, though, that around the time I started searching online for today’s 45, that a Tony Wilde was involved with auto racing. Now there’s one who races a Kawasaki, one who competes in 10K races, and a young actor. I had a song title, but it was a common enough phrase that I still had to do a lot of sifting. Then, finally, I remembered the label for which Tony Wilde had recorded, and I found what I was after.
“Whisper to Me” (Gardena 101) was the side three-year-old caithiseach played more often on this 45, though its designation as 101-2 makes it seem to be the intended B side. The gentle vocals and backing track kept the song from becoming one of my favorites, but it was memorable enough for me to recall it easily when I started looking for replacement 45s several years ago.
My memory of the label itself helped me figure out what to search for online. I remembered a white label with the figures from a deck of cards—hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades—arranged so as to hold the letters of the label’s name, Gardena Records. There is also a logo of a hand holding a royal flush. I turns out that Gardena, California had legalized card gambling at a time when such things were rarely legal, so by the time the label came into being in 1960, cards were Gardena’s main claim to fame.
Tony Wilde enjoyed considerable success on Gardena. He was around from the start, since the first Gardena single was numbered 100 and Tony logged number 101. He also released #107, “John Henry”/“There’s a Star-Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere” in 1960. After that . . . well, his singles didn’t sell, so we’re done considering his success.
Gardena as a whole was just slightly more successful. The label logged a #38 One-Week Wonder, “Like, Long Hair” by Paul Revere and the Raiders (Gardena 116). If Paul Revere Dick hadn’t driven down from Portland, Oregon to blanket the L.A.-area labels with his demo, it’s hard to say if Gardena would have found a hit artist at any point. The label released 39 singles through 1963, and that was that.
“Whisper to Me” was written by Rusty Nail. Rusty Nail has 54 titles under his belt on the BMI site, including “Whisper to Me.” Often, these old songs aren’t showing up with active registrations, so I was pleased to find that Mr. Nail has been keeping his registrations up to date, though it’s no longer linked to Class Publishing or any other publisher. There’s a business opportunity for you. Rusty Nail seems to specialize in songs about wine, bottles, devils, crying, fools, freight trains and whispering. As mournful as most of these topics are, “Whisper to Me” is a love song that doesn’t touch on infidelity, alcoholism or body parts severed on railroad tracks. So it’s all good.
Both sides of this record were arranged and directed (read: produced) by Jack Marshall. There is a good likelihood that the Jack Marshall in question was a guitar player who started producing records for Capitol in the 1950s. He scored some monster flicks beginning in 1958, and then he wound up composing for TV. He’s responsible for one of my favorite themes, for The Munsters. A producing gig with Gardena records in 1960 would fit perfectly into his music trajectory, so I’m fairly confident that I found the right guy. If so, he was born in 1921 and died at age 51 in 1973. He was the father of Frank Marshall, who has produced Raiders of the Lost Ark and a pile of other superb films.
There’s not a lot of information available about Tony Wilde or the people who helped him put this single together. Even so, I decided to split this song from its A side, because the song, while not exceptional, isn’t a complete throwaway. I do hope you enjoy it, and Saturday I’ll bring you a more amusing tune by Mr. Wilde. See you on the flip side!
Tony Wilde, Whisper to Me
Saturday, June 14, 2008
In Or Out, and Don’t Slam That Door!
Reflections on today’s song made me realize that I have featured just three female acts in 47 posts: Patti Page, the Pixies Three, and Connie Landers. Here’s number four, and they have one thing in common: their 45s all had black labels with silver writing. Boy, that’s some connection.
There’s a stronger connection between Patti Page and today’s vocalist, Gloria Wood. The single, “Close the Door Gently” (Diamond 3005) exhibits some of the playful lyrical style that wove through Page’s career. The song is a fast waltz, not unlike some Page hits, but avoiding the tone of such morose tunes as “Tennessee Waltz” and “Mama from the Train.”
“Close the Door Gently” is, in fact, one of the cheeriest-sounding breakup songs I know. Three-year-old caithiseach played this song a lot; it has to be close to the Top Ten in all-time caithiseach plays. I liked the clear, sweet vocals, the whimsical orchestral arrangement, and the message.
How many times did you get told to close the door, stay in or out, we’re not heating/cooling the outdoors, and were you raised in a barn? (Actually, I knew one guy who was raised in a barn, but he doesn’t figure in this blog.) If you heard these clichés as often as I did, the song will click for you as it did for me.
As has so often happened this year, I have learned that Gloria Wood was not a complete obscurity despite the lack of success her single had on this small label. Gloria (1919-1994) got her start in the 1940s when she joined her older sister, Donna Wood, as a singer for Horace Heidt and His Orchestra. Donna sang on a #1 Heidt hit from 1941, “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” Donna died of an apparent heart ailment in 1947 at age 29, leaving Gloria to develop her career without the support of her sister.
Gloria doesn’t seem to have charted any hits with Heidt’s outfit, but by 1947, Gloria was singing with Kay Kyser. In June of 1948, she sang the vocals on a huge #1 hit, “Woody Woodpecker.” She sang some successful duets with Harry Babbitt as well, as part of her Kyser experience.
Gloria had a four-octave vocal range, which worked against her when it came to singing opportunities. She sang thousands of commercials, including Peter Pan Peanut Butter and Rice-A-Roni, and she voiced Minnie Mouse. She sang in the 1948 short animated film Wet Blanket Policy, which launched the Woody Woodpecker theme. In 1953 she recorded “Hey! Bellboy!” for Capitol, and you can hear that one here:
Her range is evident here; other recordings show her matching a trumpet as it climbs higher and higher, and “Close the Door Gently” includes a number of key changes that Gloria handles without breaking a sweat.
More on Gloria in a moment, but I want to mention details of the song. Written by Maxine Bamford and Dorothy Wright. Their collaboration figures as one of the few all-female writing credits on my 45s. Wright co-wrote “Cinco Robles,” a 1957 hit for Russell Arms and also for Les Paul & Mary Ford. Bamford wrote a few more tunes, but nothing as notable as “Cinco Robles.”
The recording itself was orchestrated by Ivan Scott, with “bum-bum-bum” backing vocals by the Four Jewels. Pete Lofthouse created the whimsical arrangement. Lofthouse logged ten years as a trombonist for Lawrence Welk’s orchestra, and Scott backed a number of underrepresented vocalists. The Four Jewels seem to have sung with the amazing Billy Stewart on a couple of his sides around 1962, but I can’t find a lot of work that features them.
I should note that the other side of “Close the Door Gently,” “Wear a Smile,” is designated as Diamond 3005-A, while today’s tune is 3005-X. Not one to respect musical conventions when I was a three-year-old DJ, I never played “Wear a Smile.” If I pull out my turntable and give it a spin this year, I’ll let you know what’s going on with it. It turns out that Billy May arranged that side, so it may have some redeeming qualities.
Now, back to you, Gloria. I would be remiss if I did not report that Gloria and her sister, Donna, have been spied post-mortem by a ghost hunter named Leslie Siegel. You can find details on that matter via your favorite search engine.
Despite the possibility that Gloria is haunting Hollywood, I have always found that the song lifts my spirits. I hope it does the same for you. Coming Wednesday is a song that was a huge hit, sung by an enormously successful music legend. This artist became part of my musical heritage early on, and he’s probably part of yours. See you Wednesday!
Gloria Wood, Close the Door Gently
There’s a stronger connection between Patti Page and today’s vocalist, Gloria Wood. The single, “Close the Door Gently” (Diamond 3005) exhibits some of the playful lyrical style that wove through Page’s career. The song is a fast waltz, not unlike some Page hits, but avoiding the tone of such morose tunes as “Tennessee Waltz” and “Mama from the Train.”
“Close the Door Gently” is, in fact, one of the cheeriest-sounding breakup songs I know. Three-year-old caithiseach played this song a lot; it has to be close to the Top Ten in all-time caithiseach plays. I liked the clear, sweet vocals, the whimsical orchestral arrangement, and the message.
How many times did you get told to close the door, stay in or out, we’re not heating/cooling the outdoors, and were you raised in a barn? (Actually, I knew one guy who was raised in a barn, but he doesn’t figure in this blog.) If you heard these clichés as often as I did, the song will click for you as it did for me.
As has so often happened this year, I have learned that Gloria Wood was not a complete obscurity despite the lack of success her single had on this small label. Gloria (1919-1994) got her start in the 1940s when she joined her older sister, Donna Wood, as a singer for Horace Heidt and His Orchestra. Donna sang on a #1 Heidt hit from 1941, “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” Donna died of an apparent heart ailment in 1947 at age 29, leaving Gloria to develop her career without the support of her sister.
Gloria doesn’t seem to have charted any hits with Heidt’s outfit, but by 1947, Gloria was singing with Kay Kyser. In June of 1948, she sang the vocals on a huge #1 hit, “Woody Woodpecker.” She sang some successful duets with Harry Babbitt as well, as part of her Kyser experience.
Gloria had a four-octave vocal range, which worked against her when it came to singing opportunities. She sang thousands of commercials, including Peter Pan Peanut Butter and Rice-A-Roni, and she voiced Minnie Mouse. She sang in the 1948 short animated film Wet Blanket Policy, which launched the Woody Woodpecker theme. In 1953 she recorded “Hey! Bellboy!” for Capitol, and you can hear that one here:
Her range is evident here; other recordings show her matching a trumpet as it climbs higher and higher, and “Close the Door Gently” includes a number of key changes that Gloria handles without breaking a sweat.
More on Gloria in a moment, but I want to mention details of the song. Written by Maxine Bamford and Dorothy Wright. Their collaboration figures as one of the few all-female writing credits on my 45s. Wright co-wrote “Cinco Robles,” a 1957 hit for Russell Arms and also for Les Paul & Mary Ford. Bamford wrote a few more tunes, but nothing as notable as “Cinco Robles.”
The recording itself was orchestrated by Ivan Scott, with “bum-bum-bum” backing vocals by the Four Jewels. Pete Lofthouse created the whimsical arrangement. Lofthouse logged ten years as a trombonist for Lawrence Welk’s orchestra, and Scott backed a number of underrepresented vocalists. The Four Jewels seem to have sung with the amazing Billy Stewart on a couple of his sides around 1962, but I can’t find a lot of work that features them.
I should note that the other side of “Close the Door Gently,” “Wear a Smile,” is designated as Diamond 3005-A, while today’s tune is 3005-X. Not one to respect musical conventions when I was a three-year-old DJ, I never played “Wear a Smile.” If I pull out my turntable and give it a spin this year, I’ll let you know what’s going on with it. It turns out that Billy May arranged that side, so it may have some redeeming qualities.
Now, back to you, Gloria. I would be remiss if I did not report that Gloria and her sister, Donna, have been spied post-mortem by a ghost hunter named Leslie Siegel. You can find details on that matter via your favorite search engine.
Despite the possibility that Gloria is haunting Hollywood, I have always found that the song lifts my spirits. I hope it does the same for you. Coming Wednesday is a song that was a huge hit, sung by an enormously successful music legend. This artist became part of my musical heritage early on, and he’s probably part of yours. See you Wednesday!
Gloria Wood, Close the Door Gently
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
It Never Got Better Than This
I love many kinds of music, and many songs that have nothing in common with each other. To be honest, the reactions of my easy-listening friends and my head-banger friends to music that doesn’t suit them disappoints me a bit. I don’t understand how people can develop such a rut that they can’t skip to another groove.
I am going to discuss a song that nearly everyone, regardless of age, level of musical sophistication, self-perceived musical superiority or affiliation with Rolling Stone can sing from memory. Everyone knows this song because there has never been a better pop song.
The song is “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies (Calendar 1008).
Any Major Dude, whom I respect as a champion of spectacular music, has not included this song in the Perfect Pop series on his blog. Maybe he won’t. But I can make a case, both technical and personal, for “Sugar, Sugar” as the definition of popular music, perhaps even populist music. From its misunderstood origins to its effect on the careers of its writers, the song has earned smirks from writers who could not stop humming it. I’m going to get militant as I tell you why a memorable pop song is not by nature a pop song to be avoided.
I start with the genesis of the song. Ronnie Dante says that Jeff Barry had encouraged Andy Kim to come up with something for the Archies to record. Andy got the idea for the first bit and presented it to Jeff over the phone. They developed the tune together, with Jeff providing the keyboard hook and some lyrics I’ll get to shortly.
Other writers and producers had created bubblegum music. “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy” and “Chewy, Chewy” come to mind. Are they perfect pop songs? No. Why do I say “Sugar, Sugar” reaches that level?
Jeff Barry aimed a lot of his 1960s songs at young teens. In this respect, he was considerably ahead of his peers in understanding the intellectual power, and the purchasing power, of that demographic. Whereas the Ohio Express songs seek to combine a catchy melody with inane lyrics, Jeff’s songs were vibrant enough to energize the young and vital enough to impress music historians. It’s no accident that “Have I ever told you how good it feels to hold you” has been honored by the Library of Congress, while “I got love in my tummy and I feel like lovin’ you” has not.
The difference is that Jeff did not try to capitalize on the innocence of youth; he celebrated it. He still does. If you lament that children are now singing “Shawty need a refund, needa bring that nigga back/Just like a refund, I make her bring that ass back,” you are not alone, and it’s not age that makes one sad about where lyrics have gone.
When Jeff was asked by Don Kirshner to write for the Archies, Jeff did so with a goal of bridging the gap between kiddie pop and adult pop. Jeff risked his stature as a serious producer/writer when he took on this task. He and Andy Kim succeeded with “Sugar, Sugar,” above all other Archies tunes. Andy got it started, and Jeff knew this was a keeper.
The risk paid off commercially, but the intelligentsia, in the throes of psychedelia and Beatlemania, among other –ias, branded Jeff as a simplistic writer. A number of years later, one critic of this ilk asked Jeff why he didn’t write for adults. Jeff replied that recently he had heard a line by Rod McKuen: “I just can’t believe the loveliness of loving you.” The critic replied that Jeff should have written lines like that.
“Fuck you,” Jeff replied. “I wrote that. It’s from ‘Sugar, Sugar.’”
That is part of why “Sugar, Sugar” is a perfect pop song. It’s not about laughing all the way to the bank, like High School Musical 2. It’s about making music that neither shuts out kids nor sends their parents screaming from the room. Compare “Pour a little sugar on me, honey” with “Pour some sugar on me,” and tell me that the lyric Def Leppard echoed is really more adult than the Archies original.
The “Sugar, Sugar” recording session shows another level of sophistication that people tend not to hear. For the first fifteen or so unnumbered takes, Jeff couldn’t get his drummer, Gary Chester (born Cesario Gurciullo, 1924-1987), to match what Jeff was feeling for the song. Unlike the session for Andy Kim’s “Baby, I Love You,” Jeff persevered. He wound up standing in front of his drummer, swaying to the beat in his head to keep the tempo surprisingly slow. Jeff had no use for the frenetic pace of a kiddie tune here.
As the end of the second chorus approaches, Ron Dante sings “You are my candy, girl, and you got me . . . wanting you.” After “me,” he sucks in his breath, the way people do when someone attractive walks by. I asked whose idea that was, and Ron said it was Jeff’s. It is such a subtle touch that kids would never hear it, yet adults know what it implies. No need to say what “wanting you” means; the lyric stays kid-friendly and the breathing provides the subtext. I didn’t hear it as a kid, but I hear it now, every time, and I nod in approval of the tactic.
Did that mean Jeff controlled the song too much? Ron Dante himself came up with the “Whoa-oh-oh” part that leads out of the second verse. At that point the song crosses into soul music; counterpoint shouts of “honey” crop up, and after Toni Wine sings the low “Betty” version of “I’m gonna make your life so sweet,” she belts the high, Aretha-like “Veronica” version of the same phrase. She told me she crafted that pair of singing personalities.
Now, with a pretty good track ready for release, it was up to the kids to buy it once they heard it, right? Ron Dante said that, after two very kid-oriented singles, this third Archies release met with radio resistance simply because of the artist name. At last someone played it, and the listener response was so intense that the song could not be denied airplay. The result was a single that entered the Top 40 on August 16, 1969, spent four weeks at #1 starting September 20, and logged 22 weeks in the Hot 100. “Sugar, Sugar” was the RIAA Record of the Year for 1969. That consumer-driven success is what makes me call it a populist song as well as a popular one.
I have given you bio information on Jeff Barry and Andy Kim before, but I owe you Ron Dante and Toni Wine. Ron Dante, born Carmine Granito in 1945, sang the Archies hits, as well as “Tracy” by the Cuff Links. He also sang (but not the lead) on “Leader of the Laundromat” by the Detergents, a parody of “Leader of the Pack.” Everyone involved with the parody knew it would be subjected to a lawsuit for royalties by the writers of the original hit, among whom was Jeff Barry.
Ron Dante moved on from the Archies to production work for all of Barry Manilow’s records through about 1981. He sang background on “Mandy” and a number of other hits. He still performs regularly.
Toni Wine, born in 1947, wrote “A Groovy Kind of Love” when she was about 18, and she wrote “Candida” for Tony Orlando after she left the Archies. She and Robin Grean sang the backing vocals on “Candida” and “Knock Three Times”; don’t let Joel Whitburn fool you on this one. Ellie Greenwich didn’t participate in the Dawn recordings, but you can hear her on the Archies songs. Toni tours with Tony Orlando now.
While I’m at it, I should note that Gary Chester played drums on “My Boyfriend’s Back,” “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” as just the tip of his session-work iceberg.
And now it gets personal. As soon as “Sugar, Sugar” leapt onto WLS in August, 1969, I fell in love with it, along with the rest of the country. At home, I was the daytime caregiver for a very sick mother, and this song kept up my spirits. This one, and “Honky Tonk Women,” of all things.
I didn’t ask anyone to take me to the store to buy the 45, but I didn’t have to. I got a copy of it on the back of a cereal box. Four Archies tunes were featured on a cereal; I believe it was Sugar Crisp. I bought the cereal, hoping to get the right record (the songs weren’t named; you had to play them to know what you had), and on the third try, I had my song.
By 1969, though, my stereo tonearm had been snapped in two by rambunctious siblings, and finally the wires pulled loose. I bought a little record player from a neighbor for a dollar. Its drawback was that it played only 33 1/3 rpm records. So I played my Archies cereal box record at LP speed and imagined that it was playing faster. It was better than nothing. I would still have asked for the actual vinyl single, but it seemed sacrilegious to own such a cheery 45 when I was walking my mom to the toilet every couple of hours. I didn’t turn off the radio, though.
And yet, Mom rallied in late 1969. On November 12, she and I were watching the Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour, sitting together on the sofa, when Glen and the Lennon Sisters started singing “Sugar, Sugar.” My mom started swaying to the music, but I thought it was a ridiculous performance. If you wanted sacrilege, there it was. I snapped, “They should sing their own songs.”
My mom looked at me, her mouth open in shock, and I stomped off to my room. Fifty-nine days later, she died. And, you know, sometimes you can’t go back and apologize for screwing up a perfectly decent evening. She never asked me about it, and though I tried to make myself explain what had been going through my mind, I never could. That’s too bad, because she would have gotten it, after all those years of nurturing my musical tastes.
The day she died, “Don’t Cry Daddy” by Elvis Presley was #11, heading for #6. “Sugar, Sugar” had slipped out of the Hot 100 on December 20. That was a huge and unwelcome change in the radio landscape for me, but I still had my cereal box cutout, and I still played it at LP speed. Sometimes you have to make do with what you have left.
Saturday I’ll look at another Archies song, one that is evocative for different reasons. Thanks for reading. See you then.
Archies--Sugar, Sugar
I am going to discuss a song that nearly everyone, regardless of age, level of musical sophistication, self-perceived musical superiority or affiliation with Rolling Stone can sing from memory. Everyone knows this song because there has never been a better pop song.
The song is “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies (Calendar 1008).
Any Major Dude, whom I respect as a champion of spectacular music, has not included this song in the Perfect Pop series on his blog. Maybe he won’t. But I can make a case, both technical and personal, for “Sugar, Sugar” as the definition of popular music, perhaps even populist music. From its misunderstood origins to its effect on the careers of its writers, the song has earned smirks from writers who could not stop humming it. I’m going to get militant as I tell you why a memorable pop song is not by nature a pop song to be avoided.
I start with the genesis of the song. Ronnie Dante says that Jeff Barry had encouraged Andy Kim to come up with something for the Archies to record. Andy got the idea for the first bit and presented it to Jeff over the phone. They developed the tune together, with Jeff providing the keyboard hook and some lyrics I’ll get to shortly.
Other writers and producers had created bubblegum music. “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy” and “Chewy, Chewy” come to mind. Are they perfect pop songs? No. Why do I say “Sugar, Sugar” reaches that level?
Jeff Barry aimed a lot of his 1960s songs at young teens. In this respect, he was considerably ahead of his peers in understanding the intellectual power, and the purchasing power, of that demographic. Whereas the Ohio Express songs seek to combine a catchy melody with inane lyrics, Jeff’s songs were vibrant enough to energize the young and vital enough to impress music historians. It’s no accident that “Have I ever told you how good it feels to hold you” has been honored by the Library of Congress, while “I got love in my tummy and I feel like lovin’ you” has not.
The difference is that Jeff did not try to capitalize on the innocence of youth; he celebrated it. He still does. If you lament that children are now singing “Shawty need a refund, needa bring that nigga back/Just like a refund, I make her bring that ass back,” you are not alone, and it’s not age that makes one sad about where lyrics have gone.
When Jeff was asked by Don Kirshner to write for the Archies, Jeff did so with a goal of bridging the gap between kiddie pop and adult pop. Jeff risked his stature as a serious producer/writer when he took on this task. He and Andy Kim succeeded with “Sugar, Sugar,” above all other Archies tunes. Andy got it started, and Jeff knew this was a keeper.
The risk paid off commercially, but the intelligentsia, in the throes of psychedelia and Beatlemania, among other –ias, branded Jeff as a simplistic writer. A number of years later, one critic of this ilk asked Jeff why he didn’t write for adults. Jeff replied that recently he had heard a line by Rod McKuen: “I just can’t believe the loveliness of loving you.” The critic replied that Jeff should have written lines like that.
“Fuck you,” Jeff replied. “I wrote that. It’s from ‘Sugar, Sugar.’”
That is part of why “Sugar, Sugar” is a perfect pop song. It’s not about laughing all the way to the bank, like High School Musical 2. It’s about making music that neither shuts out kids nor sends their parents screaming from the room. Compare “Pour a little sugar on me, honey” with “Pour some sugar on me,” and tell me that the lyric Def Leppard echoed is really more adult than the Archies original.
The “Sugar, Sugar” recording session shows another level of sophistication that people tend not to hear. For the first fifteen or so unnumbered takes, Jeff couldn’t get his drummer, Gary Chester (born Cesario Gurciullo, 1924-1987), to match what Jeff was feeling for the song. Unlike the session for Andy Kim’s “Baby, I Love You,” Jeff persevered. He wound up standing in front of his drummer, swaying to the beat in his head to keep the tempo surprisingly slow. Jeff had no use for the frenetic pace of a kiddie tune here.
As the end of the second chorus approaches, Ron Dante sings “You are my candy, girl, and you got me . . . wanting you.” After “me,” he sucks in his breath, the way people do when someone attractive walks by. I asked whose idea that was, and Ron said it was Jeff’s. It is such a subtle touch that kids would never hear it, yet adults know what it implies. No need to say what “wanting you” means; the lyric stays kid-friendly and the breathing provides the subtext. I didn’t hear it as a kid, but I hear it now, every time, and I nod in approval of the tactic.
Did that mean Jeff controlled the song too much? Ron Dante himself came up with the “Whoa-oh-oh” part that leads out of the second verse. At that point the song crosses into soul music; counterpoint shouts of “honey” crop up, and after Toni Wine sings the low “Betty” version of “I’m gonna make your life so sweet,” she belts the high, Aretha-like “Veronica” version of the same phrase. She told me she crafted that pair of singing personalities.
Now, with a pretty good track ready for release, it was up to the kids to buy it once they heard it, right? Ron Dante said that, after two very kid-oriented singles, this third Archies release met with radio resistance simply because of the artist name. At last someone played it, and the listener response was so intense that the song could not be denied airplay. The result was a single that entered the Top 40 on August 16, 1969, spent four weeks at #1 starting September 20, and logged 22 weeks in the Hot 100. “Sugar, Sugar” was the RIAA Record of the Year for 1969. That consumer-driven success is what makes me call it a populist song as well as a popular one.
I have given you bio information on Jeff Barry and Andy Kim before, but I owe you Ron Dante and Toni Wine. Ron Dante, born Carmine Granito in 1945, sang the Archies hits, as well as “Tracy” by the Cuff Links. He also sang (but not the lead) on “Leader of the Laundromat” by the Detergents, a parody of “Leader of the Pack.” Everyone involved with the parody knew it would be subjected to a lawsuit for royalties by the writers of the original hit, among whom was Jeff Barry.
Ron Dante moved on from the Archies to production work for all of Barry Manilow’s records through about 1981. He sang background on “Mandy” and a number of other hits. He still performs regularly.
Toni Wine, born in 1947, wrote “A Groovy Kind of Love” when she was about 18, and she wrote “Candida” for Tony Orlando after she left the Archies. She and Robin Grean sang the backing vocals on “Candida” and “Knock Three Times”; don’t let Joel Whitburn fool you on this one. Ellie Greenwich didn’t participate in the Dawn recordings, but you can hear her on the Archies songs. Toni tours with Tony Orlando now.
While I’m at it, I should note that Gary Chester played drums on “My Boyfriend’s Back,” “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” as just the tip of his session-work iceberg.
And now it gets personal. As soon as “Sugar, Sugar” leapt onto WLS in August, 1969, I fell in love with it, along with the rest of the country. At home, I was the daytime caregiver for a very sick mother, and this song kept up my spirits. This one, and “Honky Tonk Women,” of all things.
I didn’t ask anyone to take me to the store to buy the 45, but I didn’t have to. I got a copy of it on the back of a cereal box. Four Archies tunes were featured on a cereal; I believe it was Sugar Crisp. I bought the cereal, hoping to get the right record (the songs weren’t named; you had to play them to know what you had), and on the third try, I had my song.
By 1969, though, my stereo tonearm had been snapped in two by rambunctious siblings, and finally the wires pulled loose. I bought a little record player from a neighbor for a dollar. Its drawback was that it played only 33 1/3 rpm records. So I played my Archies cereal box record at LP speed and imagined that it was playing faster. It was better than nothing. I would still have asked for the actual vinyl single, but it seemed sacrilegious to own such a cheery 45 when I was walking my mom to the toilet every couple of hours. I didn’t turn off the radio, though.
And yet, Mom rallied in late 1969. On November 12, she and I were watching the Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour, sitting together on the sofa, when Glen and the Lennon Sisters started singing “Sugar, Sugar.” My mom started swaying to the music, but I thought it was a ridiculous performance. If you wanted sacrilege, there it was. I snapped, “They should sing their own songs.”
My mom looked at me, her mouth open in shock, and I stomped off to my room. Fifty-nine days later, she died. And, you know, sometimes you can’t go back and apologize for screwing up a perfectly decent evening. She never asked me about it, and though I tried to make myself explain what had been going through my mind, I never could. That’s too bad, because she would have gotten it, after all those years of nurturing my musical tastes.
The day she died, “Don’t Cry Daddy” by Elvis Presley was #11, heading for #6. “Sugar, Sugar” had slipped out of the Hot 100 on December 20. That was a huge and unwelcome change in the radio landscape for me, but I still had my cereal box cutout, and I still played it at LP speed. Sometimes you have to make do with what you have left.
Saturday I’ll look at another Archies song, one that is evocative for different reasons. Thanks for reading. See you then.
Archies--Sugar, Sugar
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
"Baby" Week, Part 1
I conceived this blog as a place to bring attention to the oddest and least-selling 45s you might ever hear. Last week, the Bob Keefe songs fit that mission perfectly. I have decided at times to feature very successful singles and artists, though, when the song or the singer played a large part in the musical milieu of my 45-spinning years.
I’m going back to some pretty big hits this week and next. I have a personal connection to each song, but I have also managed to get authoritative back stories for all four tunes, so I’ll share some of that. Parts of the stories deserve to be developed in a larger forum, and I’ll let you know when said forum comes into being.
This story starts for me with a song, but it starts for the singer with a dream and the determination to follow through on his goals. In early 1968, a fifteen-year-old boy caught a train from Montreal to Manhattan with the intention of meeting his songwriting hero. He made his way to 1650 Broadway, and with some persistence he managed to meet his icon.
The boy was Androwis Jovakim. The songwriter was Joel Adelberg. What followed their meeting was the fruitful songwriting/production collaboration that led to a successful solo career for Andy Kim and an RIAA Record of the Year in 1969 for Jeff Barry and Andy Kim.
By the time Andy Kim came into my world, he and Jeff had been working together for a year, and Andy had two Top 40 hits under his belt. His third Top 40 hit and first Top Ten smash was “Baby, I Love You” (Steed 716). The Ronettes’ #2 version was just six years old when he took the song to #9 in the fall of 1969. The decision to have Andy record the song, and the recording process itself, make for interesting reading.
At the time, Jeff Barry’s label, Steed Records, was a busy but not yet hit-laden enterprise. Jeff and Andy had already reached the Top 40 for Don Kirshner with their first Archies hit. Andy was in Jeff’s office, and Jeff stepped out for a moment.
Andy came across the sheet music for “Baby, I Love You,” which was a still-warm girl-group classic. Andy had never heard the song, and he started strumming his guitar to the chords on the sheet. Jeff came back and said, “That’s not how it goes.”
Jeff says that the idea of “cross-dressing” songs intrigues him, and Andy’s approach to “Baby, I Love You” merited consideration. Soon, they found themselves in the studio. They had assembled the usual group for the recording, but, perhaps because everyone knew the Phil Spector production of the song, it wasn’t coming out as Jeff and Andy heard it in their heads.
So they sent everyone home.
With nothing on tape, Jeff and Andy set to work. Jeff isn’t a drummer, so when he laid the drum tracks, it really was “tracks”: he played each drum individually. He played the bass drum by hand, crashed each cymbal on a separate track, everything. Andy played the guitars; Jeff played the keyboards. Once the backing track was in place, the singers could follow the plan. Among them was Ellie Greenwich, Jeff’s frequent songwriting partner and ex-wife. “Baby, I Love You” was one of their collaborations, with additional input from Phil Spector.
Spector collaborated with engineer Larry Levine to create the Wall of Sound that made Spector an icon. I learned a few minutes ago that Levine died on his 80th birthday, May 8. The Ronettes’ version of “Baby, I Love You” was selected for the U.S. Library of Congress National Recording Registry in 2006, which is about as high an honor as a recording can receive. Even so, a number of people call Andy Kim’s version of this song the definitive recording. I am reporting, not opining, but I have to admit a great fondness for Andy’s take on the song, thanks to my life circumstances in 1969.
When my mom was hospitalized and I went off to summer camp in July, 1969, Andy was rocketing toward his #9 peak. Thus, “Baby, I Love You” was in heavy rotation on the camp radios during the week of July 20-26. I knew the Ronettes’ recording, but this fresh, noble take on the tune had me swaying on my cot when we were sitting in our cabin, listening to WLS out of Chicago. Every song I associate with camp has a special place in my heart, but few top Andy’s hold on me at the 1969 version of Good Fellow Camp.
I didn’t go into Andy’s biography at the beginning of the post, because his legacy is well-known, and he remains a relevant performer. You will get bits of his history here this week and next. I do think I should direct you to his website and suggest you spend a bit of time seeing what he’s up to these days. Say hi to caithiseach on his forum, if you don’t mind.
Not all performers remember where they got their start, but Andy made it clear to me that he has not rewritten the history of how he got to where he is. He was effusive in his praise of Jeff Barry, and he has pointed out numerous ways in which Jeff made his career possible. Even so, we all know Jeff could not have orchestrated a career for Andy if there had not been a hard-working, talented performer waiting to be developed.
It would be hard for me to write a cold, objective piece about Andy Kim, because he is too close to the center of my musical universe and far too kind-spirited a human being for me to pretend that I could do so. Thus, I won’t even try to sort it out. Andy gave me music I love, especially Saturday’s upcoming 45. “Baby, I Love You,” which is right about now enjoying the 39th anniversary of its release as a single, prepared me for the sonic delight I’ll offer then.
For now, let me say that I’m glad Andy took the train to New York when he was 15, and that I am looking forward to Saturday’s story. See you then!
Andy Kim, Baby, I Love You
I’m going back to some pretty big hits this week and next. I have a personal connection to each song, but I have also managed to get authoritative back stories for all four tunes, so I’ll share some of that. Parts of the stories deserve to be developed in a larger forum, and I’ll let you know when said forum comes into being.
This story starts for me with a song, but it starts for the singer with a dream and the determination to follow through on his goals. In early 1968, a fifteen-year-old boy caught a train from Montreal to Manhattan with the intention of meeting his songwriting hero. He made his way to 1650 Broadway, and with some persistence he managed to meet his icon.
The boy was Androwis Jovakim. The songwriter was Joel Adelberg. What followed their meeting was the fruitful songwriting/production collaboration that led to a successful solo career for Andy Kim and an RIAA Record of the Year in 1969 for Jeff Barry and Andy Kim.
By the time Andy Kim came into my world, he and Jeff had been working together for a year, and Andy had two Top 40 hits under his belt. His third Top 40 hit and first Top Ten smash was “Baby, I Love You” (Steed 716). The Ronettes’ #2 version was just six years old when he took the song to #9 in the fall of 1969. The decision to have Andy record the song, and the recording process itself, make for interesting reading.
At the time, Jeff Barry’s label, Steed Records, was a busy but not yet hit-laden enterprise. Jeff and Andy had already reached the Top 40 for Don Kirshner with their first Archies hit. Andy was in Jeff’s office, and Jeff stepped out for a moment.
Andy came across the sheet music for “Baby, I Love You,” which was a still-warm girl-group classic. Andy had never heard the song, and he started strumming his guitar to the chords on the sheet. Jeff came back and said, “That’s not how it goes.”
Jeff says that the idea of “cross-dressing” songs intrigues him, and Andy’s approach to “Baby, I Love You” merited consideration. Soon, they found themselves in the studio. They had assembled the usual group for the recording, but, perhaps because everyone knew the Phil Spector production of the song, it wasn’t coming out as Jeff and Andy heard it in their heads.
So they sent everyone home.
With nothing on tape, Jeff and Andy set to work. Jeff isn’t a drummer, so when he laid the drum tracks, it really was “tracks”: he played each drum individually. He played the bass drum by hand, crashed each cymbal on a separate track, everything. Andy played the guitars; Jeff played the keyboards. Once the backing track was in place, the singers could follow the plan. Among them was Ellie Greenwich, Jeff’s frequent songwriting partner and ex-wife. “Baby, I Love You” was one of their collaborations, with additional input from Phil Spector.
Spector collaborated with engineer Larry Levine to create the Wall of Sound that made Spector an icon. I learned a few minutes ago that Levine died on his 80th birthday, May 8. The Ronettes’ version of “Baby, I Love You” was selected for the U.S. Library of Congress National Recording Registry in 2006, which is about as high an honor as a recording can receive. Even so, a number of people call Andy Kim’s version of this song the definitive recording. I am reporting, not opining, but I have to admit a great fondness for Andy’s take on the song, thanks to my life circumstances in 1969.
When my mom was hospitalized and I went off to summer camp in July, 1969, Andy was rocketing toward his #9 peak. Thus, “Baby, I Love You” was in heavy rotation on the camp radios during the week of July 20-26. I knew the Ronettes’ recording, but this fresh, noble take on the tune had me swaying on my cot when we were sitting in our cabin, listening to WLS out of Chicago. Every song I associate with camp has a special place in my heart, but few top Andy’s hold on me at the 1969 version of Good Fellow Camp.
I didn’t go into Andy’s biography at the beginning of the post, because his legacy is well-known, and he remains a relevant performer. You will get bits of his history here this week and next. I do think I should direct you to his website and suggest you spend a bit of time seeing what he’s up to these days. Say hi to caithiseach on his forum, if you don’t mind.
Not all performers remember where they got their start, but Andy made it clear to me that he has not rewritten the history of how he got to where he is. He was effusive in his praise of Jeff Barry, and he has pointed out numerous ways in which Jeff made his career possible. Even so, we all know Jeff could not have orchestrated a career for Andy if there had not been a hard-working, talented performer waiting to be developed.
It would be hard for me to write a cold, objective piece about Andy Kim, because he is too close to the center of my musical universe and far too kind-spirited a human being for me to pretend that I could do so. Thus, I won’t even try to sort it out. Andy gave me music I love, especially Saturday’s upcoming 45. “Baby, I Love You,” which is right about now enjoying the 39th anniversary of its release as a single, prepared me for the sonic delight I’ll offer then.
For now, let me say that I’m glad Andy took the train to New York when he was 15, and that I am looking forward to Saturday’s story. See you then!
Andy Kim, Baby, I Love You
Friday, May 9, 2008
Moonfolk, Dragons and Other Puppets
Between the first Bob Keefe post on Wednesday and this one, I received a very helpful email from Yah Shure, who shared his expertise at reading matrix numbers on 45s. I had looked up matrix numbers before, so I should have thought to search for this one. However, I would not have gotten as far with the information as Yah Shure did.
It is evident from the matrix number (K90W-5529) that “The Genie in the Bottle” was a 1959 release. I was being whimsical when I suggested that Scope 1964 had to be from 1964, but I didn’t know if its line about divorce and a horse came before or after the theme to Mr. Ed. “Genie” came first, so now we can wonder if Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, the “Silver Bells” guys, heard “Genie” before the horse started talking.
I was being extra silly when I suggested that a meticulous secretary typed the matrix number of the 45 on the disc. The RCA plant that did custom pressings for smaller labels stamped the matrix number onto the master. Yah Shure gave me that background; he also understood that I was creating an absurdist scenario for lack of better details to discuss, and I hope you did, too!
The flip of this now-somewhat less mysterious single is “Satellite Sadie,” a tune that Bob Keefe penned. I want to talk about the song, and then I’ll discuss a connection I discovered to a completely different realm of entertainment.
I wrote in April that I found (find?) moon exploration intriguing. I have read, and concocted myself, numerous scenarios involving life on the moon that would be somewhat workable under the right circumstances. There are, of course, things that can’t happen. For the ones that could, you just suspend a bit of disbelief, mostly in the politics involved and the shortsightedness of said politicians.
“Satellite Sadie” is one of those songs that could be enjoyed in the Sputnik era but suffered once Apollo came along and nixed the idea of life on the moon. The protagonist discusses his new-found love, Sadie, who has pale green skin and is nine feet tall and just one inch wide. By 1969, I was aware that there simply were not going to be any moon creatures, so I could no longer believe in Sadie’s story. Nowadays, I also have problems with the connectivity issues presented by marrying a woman who is one inch wide. (The nine-foot-tall part doesn’t faze me.)
The guy in the song, though, has to contend with atmospheric issues as well, whether he lives with Sadie on the moon or brings her to Earth, where she would get drunk on the increased oxygen levels and, I suppose, flop over from the increased gravity. If she’s green because of photosynthesis, we face another dilemma altogether. Goodness. But the song is fun, and I don’t want you to judge its premise as harshly as I do.
I would be done with this essay were it not for a bit of research luck that takes me in a completely different direction now. I told you last time that I looked up the publisher for “Genie,” Studio Music, and realized it would be impossible to sift through all of the hits. BMI didn’t cooperate, so I was stuck.
Then I searched for both Studio Music and the publisher of “Satellite Sadie,” Spindletop Music. I almost drew a blank there, too, but perseverance got me a nugget I’ll share now.
One link led me to a web page that was not at all user-friendly. After five minutes of trying to search a mountain of data, I copied the entire text and pasted it into a Word document. Spindletop appeared on page 19 of 56 single-spaced pages. It was worth the delay and the search to see what I saw.
The document was a huge listing of music copyright holders and publishing company owners. By 1978, both Studio Music and Spindletop Music were the property of a guy named Archie Levington. As I said once in a previous post, at this point you are either drawing a blank or hearing bells go off.
Archie Levington was a song promoter for Leeds Music. He worked for Motown (Jobete) in the mid-1960s, but clearly he had some link to Scope Records: he wound up owning both Studio Music and Spindletop Music at some point, maybe even when Bob Keefe was singing for them. By all accounts, he was a wonderful man with a very engaging personality. The document that talks of his multiple publishing interests states that his properties were controlled by his executrix, Frances Allison Levington.
Archie Levington was married to Fran Allison for forty years. From the time I became aware of television, I enjoyed watching Fran Allison’s charming conversations with her friends, Ollie and Kukla.
Kukla, Fran and Ollie appeared on Chicago television beginning in 1947. I don’t know if I saw them on NBC, local Chicago TV or just in later incarnations; I can’t get a good read on their schedule in the early 1960s. But caithiseach loved these two puppets: the one-toothed dragon Ollie, an aspiring writer like caithiseach, and his sidekick, Kukla. They were the creations of Burr Tillstrom, who did all of the voices for the show. These guys, along with the lovely Fran, held a Nielsen share of 17 during their heyday. It wasn’t just kids who watched their antics.
In 1967, the CBS Children’s Film Festival debuted, and Kukla, Fran and Ollie hosted the show. They introduced the films, which often were foreign films. Among the films I saw on their show were The Red Balloon (1956) and Lili (1953). Lili was based on a short story by Paul Gallico called “The Man Who Hated People.” The man, a puppeteer, falls in love with a young girl, but he can speak to her only through his puppets. Paul Gallico’s inspiration for the story? Kukla, Fran and Ollie.
I can’t tell you how much Lili entranced me. There is just one song in the film, “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo,” and I find it to be one of the most sweetly sad melodies I have ever heard, second, perhaps, to the theme of the second movement of Dvořák’s Cello Concerto. Written by Bronislau Kaper (1902-1983) and Helen Deutsch (1906-1992), “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo” charted in May, 1953 in its original form, as sung by the film’s stars, Leslie Caron and Mel Ferrer.
I am not sure how the film can resonate so much with me, as I saw it just once, on the KFO film series. That was about forty years ago. When I saw the film that evening, the song made me weep. As I write now, I have tears in my eyes. I should probably watch the movie again.
I know the story was so bittersweet that I could barely stand it. Unrequited love, constant longing, whatever it is, it got me. It still does, and I can’t even remember what Mel Ferrer looks like.
I will cause a chuckle or two when I say it, but all this leads us to Gene Vincent.
Eugene Vincent Craddock (1935-1971) recorded the amazing slow rockabilly number “Be-Bop-A-Lula” in 1956. He stopped having hits in the U.S. in 1958. He survived the 1960 taxi crash that killed Eddie Cochran. In 1966, he recorded for Challenge Records an album called Am I That Easy to Forget, with backing by Glen Campbell, David Gates, Jim Seals, Dash Crofts and others. Among the songs he recorded for the album was “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo.”
The overbearing echo of “Be-Bop-A-Lula” is gone, and if you thought the reverb was there to mask a lousy voice, you are absolutely wrong. A tender, slow reading of an already sensitive song moves it in a completely different direction from the French-peasant feel of the Caron-Ferrer version. Gene Vincent takes complete possession of this song. As if it weren’t already hard enough for me to listen to the movie version without emotion, it’s nearly impossible for me to ignore the power of the Vincent recording.
I didn’t discover Gene Vincent’s version until last year, when I found it on eMusic. It’s one of the best discoveries of my experiment-with-new-recordings phase, which began in 1962 and is still going on.
And that, friends, is what I know about “Satellite Sadie”: Bob Keefe wrote for Spindletop Music, which was owned by Archie Levington, who was married to Fran Allison, whose show inspired Lili, whose one song was recorded by Gene Vincent. Now, if only Gene Vincent had recorded with Bob Keefe, the circle would be unbroken.
Nah. Not going there.
Wednesday, we’ll revisit my hero, Jeff Barry, in a new context, working with another hero of mine. See you then!
Bob Keefe, Satellite Sadie
Gene Vincent, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo
Leslie Caron and Mel Ferrer, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo
Dvořák, Cello Concerto, Rostropovich/von Karajan, DG 413 819-2
Satellite Sadie label scan
It is evident from the matrix number (K90W-5529) that “The Genie in the Bottle” was a 1959 release. I was being whimsical when I suggested that Scope 1964 had to be from 1964, but I didn’t know if its line about divorce and a horse came before or after the theme to Mr. Ed. “Genie” came first, so now we can wonder if Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, the “Silver Bells” guys, heard “Genie” before the horse started talking.
I was being extra silly when I suggested that a meticulous secretary typed the matrix number of the 45 on the disc. The RCA plant that did custom pressings for smaller labels stamped the matrix number onto the master. Yah Shure gave me that background; he also understood that I was creating an absurdist scenario for lack of better details to discuss, and I hope you did, too!
The flip of this now-somewhat less mysterious single is “Satellite Sadie,” a tune that Bob Keefe penned. I want to talk about the song, and then I’ll discuss a connection I discovered to a completely different realm of entertainment.
I wrote in April that I found (find?) moon exploration intriguing. I have read, and concocted myself, numerous scenarios involving life on the moon that would be somewhat workable under the right circumstances. There are, of course, things that can’t happen. For the ones that could, you just suspend a bit of disbelief, mostly in the politics involved and the shortsightedness of said politicians.
“Satellite Sadie” is one of those songs that could be enjoyed in the Sputnik era but suffered once Apollo came along and nixed the idea of life on the moon. The protagonist discusses his new-found love, Sadie, who has pale green skin and is nine feet tall and just one inch wide. By 1969, I was aware that there simply were not going to be any moon creatures, so I could no longer believe in Sadie’s story. Nowadays, I also have problems with the connectivity issues presented by marrying a woman who is one inch wide. (The nine-foot-tall part doesn’t faze me.)
The guy in the song, though, has to contend with atmospheric issues as well, whether he lives with Sadie on the moon or brings her to Earth, where she would get drunk on the increased oxygen levels and, I suppose, flop over from the increased gravity. If she’s green because of photosynthesis, we face another dilemma altogether. Goodness. But the song is fun, and I don’t want you to judge its premise as harshly as I do.
I would be done with this essay were it not for a bit of research luck that takes me in a completely different direction now. I told you last time that I looked up the publisher for “Genie,” Studio Music, and realized it would be impossible to sift through all of the hits. BMI didn’t cooperate, so I was stuck.
Then I searched for both Studio Music and the publisher of “Satellite Sadie,” Spindletop Music. I almost drew a blank there, too, but perseverance got me a nugget I’ll share now.
One link led me to a web page that was not at all user-friendly. After five minutes of trying to search a mountain of data, I copied the entire text and pasted it into a Word document. Spindletop appeared on page 19 of 56 single-spaced pages. It was worth the delay and the search to see what I saw.
The document was a huge listing of music copyright holders and publishing company owners. By 1978, both Studio Music and Spindletop Music were the property of a guy named Archie Levington. As I said once in a previous post, at this point you are either drawing a blank or hearing bells go off.
Archie Levington was a song promoter for Leeds Music. He worked for Motown (Jobete) in the mid-1960s, but clearly he had some link to Scope Records: he wound up owning both Studio Music and Spindletop Music at some point, maybe even when Bob Keefe was singing for them. By all accounts, he was a wonderful man with a very engaging personality. The document that talks of his multiple publishing interests states that his properties were controlled by his executrix, Frances Allison Levington.
Archie Levington was married to Fran Allison for forty years. From the time I became aware of television, I enjoyed watching Fran Allison’s charming conversations with her friends, Ollie and Kukla.
Kukla, Fran and Ollie appeared on Chicago television beginning in 1947. I don’t know if I saw them on NBC, local Chicago TV or just in later incarnations; I can’t get a good read on their schedule in the early 1960s. But caithiseach loved these two puppets: the one-toothed dragon Ollie, an aspiring writer like caithiseach, and his sidekick, Kukla. They were the creations of Burr Tillstrom, who did all of the voices for the show. These guys, along with the lovely Fran, held a Nielsen share of 17 during their heyday. It wasn’t just kids who watched their antics.
In 1967, the CBS Children’s Film Festival debuted, and Kukla, Fran and Ollie hosted the show. They introduced the films, which often were foreign films. Among the films I saw on their show were The Red Balloon (1956) and Lili (1953). Lili was based on a short story by Paul Gallico called “The Man Who Hated People.” The man, a puppeteer, falls in love with a young girl, but he can speak to her only through his puppets. Paul Gallico’s inspiration for the story? Kukla, Fran and Ollie.
I can’t tell you how much Lili entranced me. There is just one song in the film, “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo,” and I find it to be one of the most sweetly sad melodies I have ever heard, second, perhaps, to the theme of the second movement of Dvořák’s Cello Concerto. Written by Bronislau Kaper (1902-1983) and Helen Deutsch (1906-1992), “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo” charted in May, 1953 in its original form, as sung by the film’s stars, Leslie Caron and Mel Ferrer.
I am not sure how the film can resonate so much with me, as I saw it just once, on the KFO film series. That was about forty years ago. When I saw the film that evening, the song made me weep. As I write now, I have tears in my eyes. I should probably watch the movie again.
I know the story was so bittersweet that I could barely stand it. Unrequited love, constant longing, whatever it is, it got me. It still does, and I can’t even remember what Mel Ferrer looks like.
I will cause a chuckle or two when I say it, but all this leads us to Gene Vincent.
Eugene Vincent Craddock (1935-1971) recorded the amazing slow rockabilly number “Be-Bop-A-Lula” in 1956. He stopped having hits in the U.S. in 1958. He survived the 1960 taxi crash that killed Eddie Cochran. In 1966, he recorded for Challenge Records an album called Am I That Easy to Forget, with backing by Glen Campbell, David Gates, Jim Seals, Dash Crofts and others. Among the songs he recorded for the album was “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo.”
The overbearing echo of “Be-Bop-A-Lula” is gone, and if you thought the reverb was there to mask a lousy voice, you are absolutely wrong. A tender, slow reading of an already sensitive song moves it in a completely different direction from the French-peasant feel of the Caron-Ferrer version. Gene Vincent takes complete possession of this song. As if it weren’t already hard enough for me to listen to the movie version without emotion, it’s nearly impossible for me to ignore the power of the Vincent recording.
I didn’t discover Gene Vincent’s version until last year, when I found it on eMusic. It’s one of the best discoveries of my experiment-with-new-recordings phase, which began in 1962 and is still going on.
And that, friends, is what I know about “Satellite Sadie”: Bob Keefe wrote for Spindletop Music, which was owned by Archie Levington, who was married to Fran Allison, whose show inspired Lili, whose one song was recorded by Gene Vincent. Now, if only Gene Vincent had recorded with Bob Keefe, the circle would be unbroken.
Nah. Not going there.
Wednesday, we’ll revisit my hero, Jeff Barry, in a new context, working with another hero of mine. See you then!
Bob Keefe, Satellite Sadie
Gene Vincent, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo
Leslie Caron and Mel Ferrer, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo
Dvořák, Cello Concerto, Rostropovich/von Karajan, DG 413 819-2
Satellite Sadie label scan
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Before Christina, There Was Bob
I suspected this day would come. I have had to write some Great Vinyl Meltdown essays with very little data about the artist, but there was always information about some aspect of the featured 45, even if it was just the history of the label. Today I find myself with no artist info, no song info, and no label info. I’m up for the challenge, if you are.
In order to write this post, I went to my box of 45s to get the single in question. I haven’t talked about that box yet. When I was in college, and we’re talking 28 years ago, I had my 45s in my dorm room in order to prevent zealous downsizers at home from pitching the vinyl that had survived the Great Meltdown. I didn’t have them in a very good container, and finally the box fell apart. That was almost as bad a scenario as leaving the 45s at home, though my roommate [not sic], Ray, had his own collection of 45s and could appreciate my dilemma. But what about drunken neighbors? If one of them falls on my 45s, I told myself then, I will never be able to write a music blog once the internet is invented. Being a man of foresight, I knew I had to do something.
Fortunately, we had a hot autumn that year, and I bought a window fan. At some point, my spatial perception kicked in, and I realized the box was just the right size to hold 45s, if I cut it down. So I did, and my important 45s have sat in this box for 28 years. What the heck; I’ll immortalize the box by including a photo of it.
Today, then, I needed the 45 by Bob O’Keefe to write what I could about the record. It should have been sitting between Nilsson and Orleans. (Yes, I know.) But it wasn’t there. I looked for it among other 45s I had set aside for the blog. Nope.
And so, I got that sinking feeling that usually follows the crunch when you have left 45s out where your parents can step on them, or when you have put an album under the footrest of your mom’s recliner, and she drops it to get up. Another one bites the dust. I had lost Bob O’Keefe’s 45.
The chances that I had misfiled it were slim, but I started at the beginning of the box, leafing through the ABBA singles (geez, leave me alone) and past Aerosmith, the Archies, Baccara, the Beatles, Blondie, Boney M and the Carpenters, until I got to K, where I found today’s song, “The Genie in the Bottle” by Bob Keefe (Scope 1964).
Keefe, for crying out loud. The single was in the right place; my head was up where it should not have been. I was thinking of Danny O’Keefe, whose Songbird Foundation I’ll plug again. (Marlin Greene designed the website.)
I looked up Bob Keefe. I looked up the songwriter, Parker Gibbs. I looked up Scope Records, Chicago Illinois. I looked up Studio Music, BMI, the publisher of the tune. Try searching for “Studio Music” sometime. About 385,000 hits later, I gave up. Adding BMI got it down to 1,790 hits.
So, I was cooked. But like a good DJ, I flipped the 45, and there I found a pretty spectacular lead. But it’s about Saturday’s song, so I’m going to [make you] wait. Put me in your Palm Pilot, or set your alarm. Or, just for fun, subscribe to my blog so you never miss another post.
What I do know about Bob Keefe I picked up from this publicity photo of him.
He seems to have worked the Philadelphia comedy circuit, and I’ll tell you now that both sides of this single are novelty tunes. Other than that, everything I know about Bob Keefe I learned in kindergarten. Sorry.
There is another Bob Keefe, who is a jazz musician. He doesn’t look like the guy in the photo.
On to Parker Gibbs. A Parker Gibbs sang on Ted Weems recordings in the 1920s. Could he have written this song thirty years later? Sure. Did he? Not sure. I looked him up on the BMI site as a songwriter, and he was not listed. Nor was the song. As for Studio Music, BMI, BMI no longer has any record of it. So, “The Genie in the Bottle” has disappeared without a trace.
All I can deduce about Scope Records, Chicago, Illinois, is that the company had upscale reproduction equipment. The label is firmly attached, unlike the Mystery 45 label. Unlike any other 45 I’ve noticed, the matrix numbers on the runout area are typed. It must have taken an ingenious secretary to stick a mastered plate in a typewriter. Awesome. And since the 45 is from about 1964 and its catalogue number is 1964, I deduce that Scope Records released one single per year until the label was bought by Procter & Gamble and turned into a mouthwash.
The song itself is a charming novelty piece. Bob’s voice is pleasant, and he has a couple of other vocalists acting out parts of the comedy routine. Speaking seriously, there is a decent chance that the Parker Gibbs of Ted Weems fame did write the song, because there are references to “Mairzy Doats” and “23 skidoo.” “The Genie in the Bottle” prepared me for something that happened the year after its release, 1965: I Dream of Jeannie debuted then, and five-year-old caithiseach knew all about genies, thanks to this song.
Ray Stevens beat Bob Keefe to the Arab-themed novelty music by a couple of years, but it’s appropriate for a theme borrowed from 1001 Nights, so I see Parker Gibbs as having lifted more from Aladdin than from Ahab.
It is inevitable that my younger readers (more quickly than my oh-so-up-to-date “older” readers) will have thought of the 1999 hit by Christina Aguilera, “Genie in a Bottle,” when I divulged today’s title. But note that the Bob Keefe song was released in 35 B.C., so Bob Keefe didn’t swipe anything from Christina from Staten Island.
Seinfeld was the show about nothing. This was the Great Vinyl Meltdown post about nothing. I had fun looking for data, though I found none. It really makes me think I should be researching old vinyl rather than preterite-imperfect pedagogy in Spanish. I’ll have to talk to someone about that.
And now, a song. The odds are about ten million to one against your having heard it, so I think I’ve scored a coup here. Please do give it a listen. It’s a lot of fun. One immortal line:
“A woman can get a divorce, of course, but who would divorce a horse?”
See you Saturday, on the flip side!
Bob Keefe, The Genie in the Bottle
Genie label scan
In order to write this post, I went to my box of 45s to get the single in question. I haven’t talked about that box yet. When I was in college, and we’re talking 28 years ago, I had my 45s in my dorm room in order to prevent zealous downsizers at home from pitching the vinyl that had survived the Great Meltdown. I didn’t have them in a very good container, and finally the box fell apart. That was almost as bad a scenario as leaving the 45s at home, though my roommate [not sic], Ray, had his own collection of 45s and could appreciate my dilemma. But what about drunken neighbors? If one of them falls on my 45s, I told myself then, I will never be able to write a music blog once the internet is invented. Being a man of foresight, I knew I had to do something.
Fortunately, we had a hot autumn that year, and I bought a window fan. At some point, my spatial perception kicked in, and I realized the box was just the right size to hold 45s, if I cut it down. So I did, and my important 45s have sat in this box for 28 years. What the heck; I’ll immortalize the box by including a photo of it.
Today, then, I needed the 45 by Bob O’Keefe to write what I could about the record. It should have been sitting between Nilsson and Orleans. (Yes, I know.) But it wasn’t there. I looked for it among other 45s I had set aside for the blog. Nope.
And so, I got that sinking feeling that usually follows the crunch when you have left 45s out where your parents can step on them, or when you have put an album under the footrest of your mom’s recliner, and she drops it to get up. Another one bites the dust. I had lost Bob O’Keefe’s 45.
The chances that I had misfiled it were slim, but I started at the beginning of the box, leafing through the ABBA singles (geez, leave me alone) and past Aerosmith, the Archies, Baccara, the Beatles, Blondie, Boney M and the Carpenters, until I got to K, where I found today’s song, “The Genie in the Bottle” by Bob Keefe (Scope 1964).
Keefe, for crying out loud. The single was in the right place; my head was up where it should not have been. I was thinking of Danny O’Keefe, whose Songbird Foundation I’ll plug again. (Marlin Greene designed the website.)
I looked up Bob Keefe. I looked up the songwriter, Parker Gibbs. I looked up Scope Records, Chicago Illinois. I looked up Studio Music, BMI, the publisher of the tune. Try searching for “Studio Music” sometime. About 385,000 hits later, I gave up. Adding BMI got it down to 1,790 hits.
So, I was cooked. But like a good DJ, I flipped the 45, and there I found a pretty spectacular lead. But it’s about Saturday’s song, so I’m going to [make you] wait. Put me in your Palm Pilot, or set your alarm. Or, just for fun, subscribe to my blog so you never miss another post.
What I do know about Bob Keefe I picked up from this publicity photo of him.
He seems to have worked the Philadelphia comedy circuit, and I’ll tell you now that both sides of this single are novelty tunes. Other than that, everything I know about Bob Keefe I learned in kindergarten. Sorry.
There is another Bob Keefe, who is a jazz musician. He doesn’t look like the guy in the photo.
On to Parker Gibbs. A Parker Gibbs sang on Ted Weems recordings in the 1920s. Could he have written this song thirty years later? Sure. Did he? Not sure. I looked him up on the BMI site as a songwriter, and he was not listed. Nor was the song. As for Studio Music, BMI, BMI no longer has any record of it. So, “The Genie in the Bottle” has disappeared without a trace.
All I can deduce about Scope Records, Chicago, Illinois, is that the company had upscale reproduction equipment. The label is firmly attached, unlike the Mystery 45 label. Unlike any other 45 I’ve noticed, the matrix numbers on the runout area are typed. It must have taken an ingenious secretary to stick a mastered plate in a typewriter. Awesome. And since the 45 is from about 1964 and its catalogue number is 1964, I deduce that Scope Records released one single per year until the label was bought by Procter & Gamble and turned into a mouthwash.
The song itself is a charming novelty piece. Bob’s voice is pleasant, and he has a couple of other vocalists acting out parts of the comedy routine. Speaking seriously, there is a decent chance that the Parker Gibbs of Ted Weems fame did write the song, because there are references to “Mairzy Doats” and “23 skidoo.” “The Genie in the Bottle” prepared me for something that happened the year after its release, 1965: I Dream of Jeannie debuted then, and five-year-old caithiseach knew all about genies, thanks to this song.
Ray Stevens beat Bob Keefe to the Arab-themed novelty music by a couple of years, but it’s appropriate for a theme borrowed from 1001 Nights, so I see Parker Gibbs as having lifted more from Aladdin than from Ahab.
It is inevitable that my younger readers (more quickly than my oh-so-up-to-date “older” readers) will have thought of the 1999 hit by Christina Aguilera, “Genie in a Bottle,” when I divulged today’s title. But note that the Bob Keefe song was released in 35 B.C., so Bob Keefe didn’t swipe anything from Christina from Staten Island.
Seinfeld was the show about nothing. This was the Great Vinyl Meltdown post about nothing. I had fun looking for data, though I found none. It really makes me think I should be researching old vinyl rather than preterite-imperfect pedagogy in Spanish. I’ll have to talk to someone about that.
And now, a song. The odds are about ten million to one against your having heard it, so I think I’ve scored a coup here. Please do give it a listen. It’s a lot of fun. One immortal line:
“A woman can get a divorce, of course, but who would divorce a horse?”
See you Saturday, on the flip side!
Bob Keefe, The Genie in the Bottle
Genie label scan
Saturday, May 3, 2008
A Cornucopia of Gee-Lights
A thread that meanders through my blog posts is the frequent discovery that the artists who recorded my 45s, seemingly complete unknowns, turn out to have made something of themselves after all. They just didn’t do so on the cuts Uncle Tom found in the closeout bin.
This past Wednesday, the Roomates (sic) showed how broad their legacy was, well beyond the 45 I have owned since 1963. I have known for several years that today’s trio, the Pixies Three, actually nicked the Top 40. It was not their version of “Gee” that got them into Joel Whitburn’s Top 40 book, though.
Of all the artists who have recorded “Gee,” only the first artists, the Crows, took it into the Top 40 (#2 R&B, #14 pop, in 1954). Perhaps that initial success caused so many other artists to take a shot with it. Then, of course, several poor showings seem to have consigned the tune to obscurity.
The road the Pixies Three took to “Gee” is not laden with twists and turns; it shows a textbook case of how things can go well for a musical act . . . sort of. The Pixies: lead singer Midge Bollinger, with Debby Swisher and Kaye McCool, were discovered at a Philadelphia talent night while they were still in high school in Hanover, Pennsylvania. John Madara and Dave White of Mercury Records (there’s my favorite label again) did the signing honors, and after renaming them the Pixies Three, started rehearsing them with a young piano player named Leon Huff.
The Pixies Three, then, are the intersection of the Girl Group Sound and the Sound of Philadelphia. Huff joined forces with Kenny Gamble to write and produce the O’Jays’ recordings, as well as “TSOP” and numerous other cuts on Philadelphia International Records. They wrote “Back Stabbers,” “Love Train” and “For the Love of Money,” for example.
After the month of practice, the girls recorded “Birthday Party” (Mercury 72130), and it spent one week at the bottom of the Top 40. Their next single, which entered the Hot 100 on December 14, 1963, became problematic for DJs, who split airplay between the two sides of the 45. “442 Glenwood Avenue” reached #56, and “Cold Cold Winter” peaked at #79. Even so, the single as a whole sold more copies than “Birthday Party.”
After that single, Midge Bollinger left the group, and Bonnie Long took her place. By early 1964, the girls were hot enough to be appearing with the Rolling Stones and the Dave Clark Five. They recorded a full album, Party with the Pixies Three. Produced by Madara & White, the album featured orchestration by Leroy Lovett. Lovett (born 1919) had produced some sides for Billie Holiday, among others. The LP included some Madara/White compositions, but the only single released from it was “Gee.”
The album displayed the guitar work of Trade Martin, who had a Top 40 single of his own, “That Stranger Used to Be My Girl,” in 1962. Martin worked on many Phil Spector and Jeff Barry sessions. Vincent Bell played some guitar parts as well; his 1970 “Airport Love Theme” instrumental flew to #31. The piano you will hear on the Pixies Three sides comes from the aforementioned Leon Huff.
The band is tight, and the truth is that the 1964 Long/Swisher/McCool lineup is as solid as any of the other Girl Groups. This is not a “why were the Ronettes more popular than the Pixies Three?” statement. The girls simply were a whole lot more pleasing to the ear than, say, Cathy Jean. They deserved success.
I said on Wednesday that the Roomates (sic) version of “Gee” got more caithiseach airplay. I did enjoy the girls’ version, but after the guys’ more sedate version set the standard for the song, I found the girls’ version a bit frantic when it showed up a year later.
The girls’ intro also has a jazzy chord structure that is absent from the guys’ version. caithiseach didn’t know jazz from zzaj in 1964, so that particular acquired taste would have whizzed right past my ears then. It’s sounding pretty good these days.
The Pixies Three did get “Gee” (Mercury 72250) onto the charts. It entered the Hot 100 on April 18, 1964 and peaked at #87 on Billboard. Cashbox gave it more credit; “Gee” peaked at #79 there. Coming right at the time of the British Invasion, it’s fair to say that the groups with which the girls appeared around that time pretty well shut them out of the charts.
A significant aspect of this 45 in caithiseach’s world was that, since I already had a “Gee” I liked, I was wont to play the flip of this single, “After the Party,” as much as “Gee.” The song fit snugly into the party theme of the LP from which it came, and its sedate afterglow sound suited the voices of the vocal trio very well. A Madara/White composition, it was not filler designed to make the producers another buck.
The songs show surprising vocal maturity from three girls who were not put together by the likes of Simon Cowell or Sean Combs. They just happened to go to high school together in Hanover, Pennsylvania. I didn’t mention their ages before; at the time of “Gee,” these three ranged from 15 to 17 years old.
“After the Party” inadvertently helped my research in an unexpected way. At the end of the song, three young men say goodnight to Bonnie, Debby and Kaye, which confirms that Midge was not around for this recording. The girls reply, “Good night, John-Boy,” or something like that.
The girls recorded a few more singles, then they graduated and split up. Can you imagine going to school in 1965 with three girls who had played the same stage as the Stones?
And that should end the story of the Pixies Three. But their classmates remembered them, and they were asked to reunite for their 25th class reunion in 1991. Bonnie, Debby and Kaye obliged, and they started performing again. In 1997, Midge showed up, and eventually she took a vacant spot in 2000 when Debby left the group. They will still perform for you! Check out more of their history, their merchandise and their booking info at the Pixies Three website, which supplied much of my historical information.
That does end my version of the story of the Pixies Three and “Gee.” But I said there were a bunch of “Gees” out there. I may as well let you hear them, eh?
In addition to the two Pixies Three sides, you get to hear the #2 R&B hit by the Crows, “Gee” (Rama 5). I’ll also include “Gee” by June Hutton with the Pied Pipers, which did not chart. But wait, there’s more: if you click now, you can also hear “Gee” by Jan & Dean (Dore 576), a Herb Alpert production and a #81 smash in late 1960.
All this, and if you stop by this evening, a free dash of snow on May 2. No joke.
On Wednesday and Saturday I’ll feature the two sides of another participant in the early 1960s sci-fi music craze. I’m thinking you haven’t heard that 45. See you then!
Pixies Three, Gee
Pixies Three, After the Party
Crows, Gee
June Hutton, Gee
Jan & Dean, Gee
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Bonus Post: Back to Washington Square!
Note: The Friday post about Big 6 Records that you expected to see is right below this special Sunday post.
On February 15, I wrote about “Washington Square” by the Village Stompers. I mentioned how much I enjoyed the song, and that I heard it only at my grandparents’ house in Shoals, Indiana. I gave you some background on the song and its composer, Bobb Goldsteinn. Here is the link to that post: Washington Square.
Well, Bobb Goldsteinn wrote to me on Thursday. I almost made a double post for Friday, but I decided to add an extra post this week so I wouldn’t overload you on any particular day. Mr. Goldsteinn was kind enough to allow me to share the information with you, but I’m going light on actual quotes because he has a very juicy (in the historical sense) book in the works.
First of all, I would have looked very clever if I had noticed that Bobb Goldsteinn, writer of one of the iconic instrumentals of my childhood, wrote two excellent songs with another caithiseach icon, Jeff Barry. Those two songs are “Falling from Paradise,” recorded by “Bobby Brown,” and “Tell It to the Wind,” which was recorded by the GoldeBriars. More on them in a moment. I have also found a composition, “Unhappy Birthday,” credited to this pair by Warner Chappell Music, but a search on the BMI site says Jeff Barry’s co-writer on “Unhappy Birthday” is Bobby Goldsboro.
Mr. Goldsteinn was kind enough to say that the “blog entry on my song is wonderful, and most of your facts are accurate as I know them. Your few errors do little to change the important truths, and that's great.”
I certainly don’t want to change important truths, and I don’t have much interest in proliferating errors, either. We’re going to revisit the subject with help from this primary source, rather than the secondary sources that misled me a bit in the first place. If that makes me a solid secondary source, that suits me fine.
Bobb Goldsteinn, known then as Bobby Goldstein, held a staff songwriting position with Leiber-Stoller for a year, during which he collaborated with Jeff Barry on the two tunes I listed. Though he wrote “Washington Square” while he was in high school, he didn’t turn the tune in to Jerry Leiber because he had learned to be wary of what happened to songs created under contract.
“Washington Square” blends three musical genres: the folk intro, a taste of jazz after a key change, and the Dixieland climax. The Dixieland part was conceived by Joe Sherman, the producer, and Duke Niles, who published the song through Rayven Music, to kowtow to the Rule of Threes. While Bobb Goldsteinn had the first two aspects of the arrangement in mind when he brought the song to be recorded, Sherman and Niles seem to have claimed the whole concept for themselves.
The chart timing of “Washington Square” may have kept it from reaching #1. It climbed to #2 for the week ending November 23, 1963, but after the assassination of President Kennedy, “Dominique” by the Singing Nun shot from #9 to #2 for the week of November 30. The national consciousness was clearly seeking comfort, and it seems to have found it in a religious song by a Catholic nun. Another musical casualty of the murder was the career of Vaughn Meader, whose comedy LP The First Family sold 7.5 million copies before the assassination and about two copies afterwards.
There seems to be some mislaid credit for the recording of “Washington Square.” Joe Sherman used leading studio musicians for the recording, but they did not receive credit. Mr. Goldsteinn recalls two: Bucky Pizzarelli and Doc Goldberg. The group listed in the Whitburn books and mentioned in my February post were assembled by Duke Niles for a tour. Mr. Goldsteinn wanted to call the act the Saints of Bleecker Street, but Village Stompers prevailed. At least part of the touring group had worked as Frank Hubbell and the Hubcaps, and as the Village Stompers they recorded eight albums for Epic. In my original post I said they had recorded “a pair of albums.” That irks me, because I lost control of a fact I knew. Sorry about that.
As successful as “Washington Square” was in the United States, Mr. Goldsteinn is very fond of the people of Japan, who kept the song and its album at #1 for six months, setting a sales record that stood until Michael Jackson’s Thriller surpassed it. When you realize that the Beatles were on their way, and they never overtook “Washington Square” in Japan, you have to take a moment to let that sink in.
In February I read, but did not mention, that there are lyrics to “Washington Square.” Bobb Goldsteinn wrote them after his publisher, seeing how the song was climbing the charts, said that either Bobb or someone else would write a set of lyrics. The Ames brothers recorded the song (Epic 9630) in 1963, but it was after Ed left his brothers to pursue a Broadway career and do such silly things as toss a tomahawk at Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. One problem that arose with the Ames version of the song was that the people at Columbia thought the final verse of the song, which was the climax of the message—just as the Dixieland arrangement was the climax of the instrumental—was “too Communistic.” And so, the Ames Brothers didn’t record the payoff verse, the 45 tanked, and the Ames Brothers were essentially finished. The song lyric didn’t gain any traction, either, thanks to the censorship.
I love it when the people associated with the songs I profile have back stories and connections to other projects. In my February post, I alluded to a few of Mr. Goldsteinn’s other accomplishments, but I didn’t go into them deeply. He shared more details, and they are fascinating, so I’m passing them on.
I said in February that he designed the zipper cover for the Rolling Stones LP Sticky Fingers. It turns out that, while the image wound up there, it was intended as the album cover for a different Warhol project.
Warhol’s film Lonesome Cowboys included (in the main version) a title song composed by Bobb Goldsteinn. Bobby Bloom (later to do significant work with Jeff Barry) sang lead, and Sissy Spacek sang backup. Mr. Goldsteinn describes the tune as a “sound sandwich.” (A song that shares both stylistic and temporal proximity is “MacArthur Park.”) The dance beat of “Lonesome Cowboys” was several years ahead of its time; the Donna Summer version of “MacArthur Park” would be a good example of a tune that played off this template.
Another credit associated with the song is the horn arrangement, which came from the mind of one Meco Menardo. The Pennsylvania-born Domenico Menardo went on to have a couple of hits of his own as Meco, including that Star Wars thingy.
I had read that Craig Braun, who designed the tongue/lips logo for the Rolling Stones, had translated Bobb Goldsteinn’s zippered-jeans idea to the Sticky Fingers cover, complete with working zipper. Mr. Goldsteinn designed the image without a real zipper, knowing what the metal would do to cardboard. Whoever translated it (and it seems not to be Craig Braun) created that record-store nightmare. As for Craig Braun, he won a Grammy for designing the Tommy package for the Who. He has appeared as an actor on ER, Law and Order and The Practice. Look him up; you’ll recognize him.
It’s important also to note Mr. Goldsteinn’s link to the GoldeBriars, the California Sound (“Sunshine Pop”) act he co-produced shortly after leaving “Washington Square” behind. If you don’t know this Minneapolis folk act, you can see the GoldeBriars website and read their history, excellently set down by Arthur Wood in the Folkwax Ezine: Part 1 and Part 2. You can also purchase the ebook memoir of the GoldeBriars by singer Dotti Holmberg, with an introduction by the co-producer of their second and (unreleased) third albums, Bobb Goldsteinn.
Arthur Wood points out that the GoldeBriars put together the sound of a male lead with two female harmony parts before they met John Phillips. If you listen to the 1963 recording at the end of this post, you’ll see the shape the California Sound was taking three years before the first hits for the Mamas & the Papas.
Mr. Goldsteinn knows where that sound had its genesis: in the mind of GoldeBriar singer Curt Boettcher. As Mr. Goldsteinn writes in the introduction to Dotti Holmberg’s book, “As sublime as was Curt’s sense of musical composition, even his loveliest songs dimmed before the radiance of his greatest gift: The ability to arrange music for the pop voice in a way that had never before been heard out of heaven on earth. It is the sound of angels playing around in the air. It is the sound of “Cherish.”
Curt Boettcher’s spectacular production and arrangement work with the Association was complemented by his work for Tommy Roe, who called him “a genius with harmonies.” As if that weren’t enough, Brian Wilson told Bobb Goldsteinn in 1996 that he worshipped Curt’s arrangements for the human voice. Curt Boettcher, who now has a larger following than when he was a star, died in 1987 at age 43.
It’s worth mentioning as well that David Shire, who owns some of the writing credit for “Washington Square” in a peripheral way, has scored a number of films, including The Conversation, directed by his brother-in-law Francis Ford Coppola. Other credits include scores for All the President’s Men and 2010. He was married from 1970 to 1978 to Talia Shire, whose maiden name is Coppola. She played Yo, Adrian! in the Rocky films, which have a Philadelphia connection. There’s a Washington Square in Philadelphia, but the one referred to in the song is the Washington Square in Greenwich Village.
And that proves you can go a long way from “Washington Square,” but you always come right back to it.
Bobb Goldsteinn said the following, which sums up my reasons for putting this blog together:
“Thanks for the great job. I know history is written by the winners, but I think those winners have a responsibility to—at least—try to tell the truth.”
I found the lyrics to the song online, but I don’t know which source is original. I changed a couple of words to match up with the Ames Brothers’ recording, but I don’t know if the Brothers followed the sheet music. The final, unrecorded verse is in italics. More commentary and sound links after the lyrics:
WASHINGTON SQUARE
Bobb Goldsteinn and David Shire
From Cape Cod Light to the Mississip, to San Francisco Bay,
They're talking about this famous place, down Greenwich Village way.
They hootenanny all the time with folks from everywhere,
Come Sunday morning, rain or shine, right in Washington Square.
And so I got my banjo out, just sittin', catchin' dust,
And painted right across the case "Greenwich Village or Bust."
My folks were sad to see me go, but I got no meanin' there.
So I said "Goodbye, Kansas, Mo, and hello, Washington Square!"
Near Tennessee, I met a guy who played 12-string guitar.
He also had a mighty voice, not to mention a car.
Each time he hit those bluegrass chords, you sure smelled mountain air.
I said, "Don't waste it on the wind. Come on to Washington Square."
In New Orleans, we saw a gal a-walkin' with no shoes,
And from her throat there comes a growl. She sure was singin' the blues.
She sang for all humanity, this gal with the raven hair.
I said, "It's for the world to hear. C'mon to Washington Square."
We cannonballed into New York on good old US 1,
Till up ahead we saw the arch, a-gleamin' bright in the sun.
As far as all the eye could see, ten thousand folks were there,
And singin' in sweet harmony right in Washington Square.
So how's about a freedom song, or the old Rock Island Line?
Or how's about the Dust-Bowl crop, or men who work in a mine?
The songs and legends of our land is gold we all can share,
So come and join us folks who stand and sing in Washington Square.
Excellent stuff. And now I want to mention a point I made in my February post. I said I always associated “Washington Square” with Depression-era music. It turns out that the final verse mentions Depression issues. I have to wonder how it happened that I felt that connection.
Thanks for joining me on this odyssey into the hidden story of “Washington Square” and Bobb Goldsteinn. I loved going there, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. My thanks to Bobb Goldsteinn for sharing the information and trusting me to paraphrase accurately. I would have been glad to post his letter verbatim for the sake of accuracy.
A note about the music. I am including samples of the two Barry-Goldsteinn compositions, but I can’t bring myself to post “Tell It to the Wind” when it’s so readily available. I did include the Amazon link for a cheap mp3. The Ames Brothers version is not easily found; I got it from a Japanese site, and now you can hear what they did with it.
Snippet of “Tell It to the Wind”
Buy “Tell It to the Wind” at Amazon mp3 for 99 cents
Snippet of “Falling from Paradise” by Bobby Brown (not that Bobby Brown)
Ames Brothers, Washington Square
On February 15, I wrote about “Washington Square” by the Village Stompers. I mentioned how much I enjoyed the song, and that I heard it only at my grandparents’ house in Shoals, Indiana. I gave you some background on the song and its composer, Bobb Goldsteinn. Here is the link to that post: Washington Square.
Well, Bobb Goldsteinn wrote to me on Thursday. I almost made a double post for Friday, but I decided to add an extra post this week so I wouldn’t overload you on any particular day. Mr. Goldsteinn was kind enough to allow me to share the information with you, but I’m going light on actual quotes because he has a very juicy (in the historical sense) book in the works.
First of all, I would have looked very clever if I had noticed that Bobb Goldsteinn, writer of one of the iconic instrumentals of my childhood, wrote two excellent songs with another caithiseach icon, Jeff Barry. Those two songs are “Falling from Paradise,” recorded by “Bobby Brown,” and “Tell It to the Wind,” which was recorded by the GoldeBriars. More on them in a moment. I have also found a composition, “Unhappy Birthday,” credited to this pair by Warner Chappell Music, but a search on the BMI site says Jeff Barry’s co-writer on “Unhappy Birthday” is Bobby Goldsboro.
Mr. Goldsteinn was kind enough to say that the “blog entry on my song is wonderful, and most of your facts are accurate as I know them. Your few errors do little to change the important truths, and that's great.”
I certainly don’t want to change important truths, and I don’t have much interest in proliferating errors, either. We’re going to revisit the subject with help from this primary source, rather than the secondary sources that misled me a bit in the first place. If that makes me a solid secondary source, that suits me fine.
Bobb Goldsteinn, known then as Bobby Goldstein, held a staff songwriting position with Leiber-Stoller for a year, during which he collaborated with Jeff Barry on the two tunes I listed. Though he wrote “Washington Square” while he was in high school, he didn’t turn the tune in to Jerry Leiber because he had learned to be wary of what happened to songs created under contract.
“Washington Square” blends three musical genres: the folk intro, a taste of jazz after a key change, and the Dixieland climax. The Dixieland part was conceived by Joe Sherman, the producer, and Duke Niles, who published the song through Rayven Music, to kowtow to the Rule of Threes. While Bobb Goldsteinn had the first two aspects of the arrangement in mind when he brought the song to be recorded, Sherman and Niles seem to have claimed the whole concept for themselves.
The chart timing of “Washington Square” may have kept it from reaching #1. It climbed to #2 for the week ending November 23, 1963, but after the assassination of President Kennedy, “Dominique” by the Singing Nun shot from #9 to #2 for the week of November 30. The national consciousness was clearly seeking comfort, and it seems to have found it in a religious song by a Catholic nun. Another musical casualty of the murder was the career of Vaughn Meader, whose comedy LP The First Family sold 7.5 million copies before the assassination and about two copies afterwards.
There seems to be some mislaid credit for the recording of “Washington Square.” Joe Sherman used leading studio musicians for the recording, but they did not receive credit. Mr. Goldsteinn recalls two: Bucky Pizzarelli and Doc Goldberg. The group listed in the Whitburn books and mentioned in my February post were assembled by Duke Niles for a tour. Mr. Goldsteinn wanted to call the act the Saints of Bleecker Street, but Village Stompers prevailed. At least part of the touring group had worked as Frank Hubbell and the Hubcaps, and as the Village Stompers they recorded eight albums for Epic. In my original post I said they had recorded “a pair of albums.” That irks me, because I lost control of a fact I knew. Sorry about that.
As successful as “Washington Square” was in the United States, Mr. Goldsteinn is very fond of the people of Japan, who kept the song and its album at #1 for six months, setting a sales record that stood until Michael Jackson’s Thriller surpassed it. When you realize that the Beatles were on their way, and they never overtook “Washington Square” in Japan, you have to take a moment to let that sink in.
In February I read, but did not mention, that there are lyrics to “Washington Square.” Bobb Goldsteinn wrote them after his publisher, seeing how the song was climbing the charts, said that either Bobb or someone else would write a set of lyrics. The Ames brothers recorded the song (Epic 9630) in 1963, but it was after Ed left his brothers to pursue a Broadway career and do such silly things as toss a tomahawk at Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. One problem that arose with the Ames version of the song was that the people at Columbia thought the final verse of the song, which was the climax of the message—just as the Dixieland arrangement was the climax of the instrumental—was “too Communistic.” And so, the Ames Brothers didn’t record the payoff verse, the 45 tanked, and the Ames Brothers were essentially finished. The song lyric didn’t gain any traction, either, thanks to the censorship.
I love it when the people associated with the songs I profile have back stories and connections to other projects. In my February post, I alluded to a few of Mr. Goldsteinn’s other accomplishments, but I didn’t go into them deeply. He shared more details, and they are fascinating, so I’m passing them on.
I said in February that he designed the zipper cover for the Rolling Stones LP Sticky Fingers. It turns out that, while the image wound up there, it was intended as the album cover for a different Warhol project.
Warhol’s film Lonesome Cowboys included (in the main version) a title song composed by Bobb Goldsteinn. Bobby Bloom (later to do significant work with Jeff Barry) sang lead, and Sissy Spacek sang backup. Mr. Goldsteinn describes the tune as a “sound sandwich.” (A song that shares both stylistic and temporal proximity is “MacArthur Park.”) The dance beat of “Lonesome Cowboys” was several years ahead of its time; the Donna Summer version of “MacArthur Park” would be a good example of a tune that played off this template.
Another credit associated with the song is the horn arrangement, which came from the mind of one Meco Menardo. The Pennsylvania-born Domenico Menardo went on to have a couple of hits of his own as Meco, including that Star Wars thingy.
I had read that Craig Braun, who designed the tongue/lips logo for the Rolling Stones, had translated Bobb Goldsteinn’s zippered-jeans idea to the Sticky Fingers cover, complete with working zipper. Mr. Goldsteinn designed the image without a real zipper, knowing what the metal would do to cardboard. Whoever translated it (and it seems not to be Craig Braun) created that record-store nightmare. As for Craig Braun, he won a Grammy for designing the Tommy package for the Who. He has appeared as an actor on ER, Law and Order and The Practice. Look him up; you’ll recognize him.
It’s important also to note Mr. Goldsteinn’s link to the GoldeBriars, the California Sound (“Sunshine Pop”) act he co-produced shortly after leaving “Washington Square” behind. If you don’t know this Minneapolis folk act, you can see the GoldeBriars website and read their history, excellently set down by Arthur Wood in the Folkwax Ezine: Part 1 and Part 2. You can also purchase the ebook memoir of the GoldeBriars by singer Dotti Holmberg, with an introduction by the co-producer of their second and (unreleased) third albums, Bobb Goldsteinn.
Arthur Wood points out that the GoldeBriars put together the sound of a male lead with two female harmony parts before they met John Phillips. If you listen to the 1963 recording at the end of this post, you’ll see the shape the California Sound was taking three years before the first hits for the Mamas & the Papas.
Mr. Goldsteinn knows where that sound had its genesis: in the mind of GoldeBriar singer Curt Boettcher. As Mr. Goldsteinn writes in the introduction to Dotti Holmberg’s book, “As sublime as was Curt’s sense of musical composition, even his loveliest songs dimmed before the radiance of his greatest gift: The ability to arrange music for the pop voice in a way that had never before been heard out of heaven on earth. It is the sound of angels playing around in the air. It is the sound of “Cherish.”
Curt Boettcher’s spectacular production and arrangement work with the Association was complemented by his work for Tommy Roe, who called him “a genius with harmonies.” As if that weren’t enough, Brian Wilson told Bobb Goldsteinn in 1996 that he worshipped Curt’s arrangements for the human voice. Curt Boettcher, who now has a larger following than when he was a star, died in 1987 at age 43.
It’s worth mentioning as well that David Shire, who owns some of the writing credit for “Washington Square” in a peripheral way, has scored a number of films, including The Conversation, directed by his brother-in-law Francis Ford Coppola. Other credits include scores for All the President’s Men and 2010. He was married from 1970 to 1978 to Talia Shire, whose maiden name is Coppola. She played Yo, Adrian! in the Rocky films, which have a Philadelphia connection. There’s a Washington Square in Philadelphia, but the one referred to in the song is the Washington Square in Greenwich Village.
And that proves you can go a long way from “Washington Square,” but you always come right back to it.
Bobb Goldsteinn said the following, which sums up my reasons for putting this blog together:
“Thanks for the great job. I know history is written by the winners, but I think those winners have a responsibility to—at least—try to tell the truth.”
I found the lyrics to the song online, but I don’t know which source is original. I changed a couple of words to match up with the Ames Brothers’ recording, but I don’t know if the Brothers followed the sheet music. The final, unrecorded verse is in italics. More commentary and sound links after the lyrics:
WASHINGTON SQUARE
Bobb Goldsteinn and David Shire
From Cape Cod Light to the Mississip, to San Francisco Bay,
They're talking about this famous place, down Greenwich Village way.
They hootenanny all the time with folks from everywhere,
Come Sunday morning, rain or shine, right in Washington Square.
And so I got my banjo out, just sittin', catchin' dust,
And painted right across the case "Greenwich Village or Bust."
My folks were sad to see me go, but I got no meanin' there.
So I said "Goodbye, Kansas, Mo, and hello, Washington Square!"
Near Tennessee, I met a guy who played 12-string guitar.
He also had a mighty voice, not to mention a car.
Each time he hit those bluegrass chords, you sure smelled mountain air.
I said, "Don't waste it on the wind. Come on to Washington Square."
In New Orleans, we saw a gal a-walkin' with no shoes,
And from her throat there comes a growl. She sure was singin' the blues.
She sang for all humanity, this gal with the raven hair.
I said, "It's for the world to hear. C'mon to Washington Square."
We cannonballed into New York on good old US 1,
Till up ahead we saw the arch, a-gleamin' bright in the sun.
As far as all the eye could see, ten thousand folks were there,
And singin' in sweet harmony right in Washington Square.
So how's about a freedom song, or the old Rock Island Line?
Or how's about the Dust-Bowl crop, or men who work in a mine?
The songs and legends of our land is gold we all can share,
So come and join us folks who stand and sing in Washington Square.
Excellent stuff. And now I want to mention a point I made in my February post. I said I always associated “Washington Square” with Depression-era music. It turns out that the final verse mentions Depression issues. I have to wonder how it happened that I felt that connection.
Thanks for joining me on this odyssey into the hidden story of “Washington Square” and Bobb Goldsteinn. I loved going there, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. My thanks to Bobb Goldsteinn for sharing the information and trusting me to paraphrase accurately. I would have been glad to post his letter verbatim for the sake of accuracy.
A note about the music. I am including samples of the two Barry-Goldsteinn compositions, but I can’t bring myself to post “Tell It to the Wind” when it’s so readily available. I did include the Amazon link for a cheap mp3. The Ames Brothers version is not easily found; I got it from a Japanese site, and now you can hear what they did with it.
Snippet of “Tell It to the Wind”
Buy “Tell It to the Wind” at Amazon mp3 for 99 cents
Snippet of “Falling from Paradise” by Bobby Brown (not that Bobby Brown)
Ames Brothers, Washington Square
Friday, April 18, 2008
Telephone Time Tunnel
I had a bit of good blogging fortune this week. After I posted about “Hello Trouble” on Wednesday, I got a comment from someone who grew up in Shoals, Indiana. Eventually I learned that her father had serviced jukeboxes in Shoals for Sherfick’s, undoubtedly the owner of the jukebox in the Dwyer Café. This gentleman also worked for National Gypsum in Shoals, where my grandfather had the contract to provide security services. So, they knew each other from National and from the café. Since the man serviced jukeboxes from 1960 to 1963, he could very well have been the guy who gave me the 45 featured Wednesday and today. I don’t think the world can get much smaller than that, but this year of blogging is starting to churn up a lot of pleasant surprises, so we’ll see.
That paragraph was a news flash, and here’s another: you may note fewer loud thumps in this recording; that is because a regular reader, Yah Shure, gave me a couple of tips on click/pop reduction that doesn’t involve ruining the presence of the sound. The sound isn’t perfect, but most of the really bad thumps are gone. Believe me, if I could find another (cleaner) copy of this record, and several others, I would share them with you.
Now I’ll give you the original post I wrote a month ago. I have talked myself out on the Big 6 story (until someone comes up with new data for me), but the song brings other thoughts to mind.
Today’s song, “Can’t Hang Up the Phone” by an anonymous Nashville vocalist (perhaps the guy who sang “Hello Trouble’ on Wednesday), talks about how desperate the protagonist is to get his girl on the phone. He’s going to “keep on sayin’ that I love you to the dialin’ tone.” To the mind of current telephone users, the lyrics sound ridiculous. I am here to help you understand this guy’s logic.
Now, in 2008, people who have only a cell phone will not hear a dial tone very often. On a land line, I can punch in the number before I pick up the handset, so I don’t hear any dial tone there, either.
Even those who use a land line often know that, after twenty seconds (I just checked) of listening to the dial tone, you hear the recording “If you’d like to make a call . . . ,” followed shortly by the terrible screech that is supposed to wake you up if you fell asleep because of the sonorous A 440 tone that was massaging your eardrum. So nowadays this guy in the song couldn’t possibly say “I love you” more than a dozen times before the phone started giving it right back to him.
Ah, but it was not always so. When I went off to college in 1978, our phones at school, rotary dial and all, had a magical feature: you could dial part of a number and let the phone sit. It would not ring, and it would not cut you off. When I told a friend I liked Mary Ann Di*****, he dialed her number, all but the last digit, and told me to do that one myself. I sat there for ten minutes, sweating, wondering how stupid I was going to sound. I finally dialed the last digit, and her phone was busy. I didn’t let them put me through that again.
So the guy in the song had the same type of mechanical phone setup we did at Indiana University. It was indeed primitive, though not compared to the nearby Smithville Telephone Company, whose wires sometimes had been strung along pasture fence posts and were prone to being torn loose by cows who rubbed against them.
But our phone book did have a listing for Fone Company—see Indiana Bell Telephone Company. Same thing for “Phone Company.” I am not kidding you.
And so, first Stonewall Jackson, then the anonymous singer of my version of the song, sits waiting for the girl who just dumped him to need to call her mom for a recipe or something. And at that point, she will hear his voice, realize that she was wrong to let such a persistent suitor go, and fall back in love with him.
Um, nowadays we call that stalking, I think. Don’t try it at home.
But it’s a really good song. I had to do funky things with the sound file to get it to work; there was a fatal skip in the intro, so I spliced in part of the intro to the second verse to keep the song together. And where he says “caused my heart to break,” you will be able to tell that I had to deal with another skip. Sorry about that. If one of you has a better transfer than mine, let me know.
And that, folks, is what I can say about Big 6 Records. I was hoping I’d have space to tell the story about my grandfather and the hellgrammite he gave me to hold, but it will have to wait. I’ll be back Wednesday with another tune from the Dwyer Café jukebox—one you know. See you then!
Big 6, Can’t Hang Up the Phone
Label scan
That paragraph was a news flash, and here’s another: you may note fewer loud thumps in this recording; that is because a regular reader, Yah Shure, gave me a couple of tips on click/pop reduction that doesn’t involve ruining the presence of the sound. The sound isn’t perfect, but most of the really bad thumps are gone. Believe me, if I could find another (cleaner) copy of this record, and several others, I would share them with you.
Now I’ll give you the original post I wrote a month ago. I have talked myself out on the Big 6 story (until someone comes up with new data for me), but the song brings other thoughts to mind.
Today’s song, “Can’t Hang Up the Phone” by an anonymous Nashville vocalist (perhaps the guy who sang “Hello Trouble’ on Wednesday), talks about how desperate the protagonist is to get his girl on the phone. He’s going to “keep on sayin’ that I love you to the dialin’ tone.” To the mind of current telephone users, the lyrics sound ridiculous. I am here to help you understand this guy’s logic.
Now, in 2008, people who have only a cell phone will not hear a dial tone very often. On a land line, I can punch in the number before I pick up the handset, so I don’t hear any dial tone there, either.
Even those who use a land line often know that, after twenty seconds (I just checked) of listening to the dial tone, you hear the recording “If you’d like to make a call . . . ,” followed shortly by the terrible screech that is supposed to wake you up if you fell asleep because of the sonorous A 440 tone that was massaging your eardrum. So nowadays this guy in the song couldn’t possibly say “I love you” more than a dozen times before the phone started giving it right back to him.
Ah, but it was not always so. When I went off to college in 1978, our phones at school, rotary dial and all, had a magical feature: you could dial part of a number and let the phone sit. It would not ring, and it would not cut you off. When I told a friend I liked Mary Ann Di*****, he dialed her number, all but the last digit, and told me to do that one myself. I sat there for ten minutes, sweating, wondering how stupid I was going to sound. I finally dialed the last digit, and her phone was busy. I didn’t let them put me through that again.
So the guy in the song had the same type of mechanical phone setup we did at Indiana University. It was indeed primitive, though not compared to the nearby Smithville Telephone Company, whose wires sometimes had been strung along pasture fence posts and were prone to being torn loose by cows who rubbed against them.
But our phone book did have a listing for Fone Company—see Indiana Bell Telephone Company. Same thing for “Phone Company.” I am not kidding you.
And so, first Stonewall Jackson, then the anonymous singer of my version of the song, sits waiting for the girl who just dumped him to need to call her mom for a recipe or something. And at that point, she will hear his voice, realize that she was wrong to let such a persistent suitor go, and fall back in love with him.
Um, nowadays we call that stalking, I think. Don’t try it at home.
But it’s a really good song. I had to do funky things with the sound file to get it to work; there was a fatal skip in the intro, so I spliced in part of the intro to the second verse to keep the song together. And where he says “caused my heart to break,” you will be able to tell that I had to deal with another skip. Sorry about that. If one of you has a better transfer than mine, let me know.
And that, folks, is what I can say about Big 6 Records. I was hoping I’d have space to tell the story about my grandfather and the hellgrammite he gave me to hold, but it will have to wait. I’ll be back Wednesday with another tune from the Dwyer Café jukebox—one you know. See you then!
Big 6, Can’t Hang Up the Phone
Label scan
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Story of a Jukebox
My dad’s parents lived in Shoals, a town of perhaps a thousand people that ran on gypsum mining and farming. On Main Street in Shoals there was a little restaurant called the Dwyer Café, and my grandparents owned it. When we drove down (five hours by car once I-65 opened), I loved to hang out there. I cleaned tables, washed dishes, peeled potatoes, and generally prepared myself for a career in the food-service industry. You could ask if that was a good idea, but I promise you I have never asked anyone if they wanted fries with that. Whatever “that” is.
The other thing I did at the Dwyer Café was stare at the jukebox. Three-year-old caithiseach couldn’t get enough of this particular device. When someone ordered a song, a semicircular metal hook grabbed the correct 45, laid it on the platter, and the tonearm came over and began to play the record. My record player was manual, so seeing the mechanics of an automatic player up close never bored me. The tonearm also held a small brush to shoo dust away from the groove. I found that very elegant, and I asked for a brush for my first good turntable.
I played two songs on that jukebox a lot. One I will discuss next week, but the other one is legendary in my music collection. Uncle Tom didn’t get me this record; I got it myself. The song is called “Hello Trouble,” and it appeared on the Big 6 label. I will approach the story from the beginning, so you can see what I learned about the song as time went on.
The record was created to maximize jukebox record slots: it had three songs on each side, with very fine grooves. I had some EPs at home, so it didn’t surprise me to find a 45 with six hits on it. Something I never figured out, and still don’t understand, is how the tonearm could find the right spot to start the second and third songs. It was like magic; if you ordered “World of Forgotten People,” the needle dropped in exactly the right spot, just after “Hello Trouble.” And if you played “Hello Trouble,” you didn’t get the other two songs for free. If you know how this machine from the early 1960s worked, do tell.
I knew the jukebox man sometimes opened up the window and swapped out records. I learned to my horror one day that he was taking “Hello Trouble” away. My distress must have been evident, because he gave me the 45. As many times as I had played that song in Shoals, I could now play it a hundred times more often in Merrillville. The tragedy of losing the recording forever was averted, and I added a prized tune to the box of 45s when I got home.
From 1963 until 1979, I played “Hello Trouble” often. The 45 didn’t get Ground to Dust, because I had better needles then, but it got crackly, as you’ll soon see. The 45 went to college with me, and when I got a good turntable and an excellent tape deck, I decided to tape the song so I could retire the 45.
That was a bit of a challenge. The lighter tonearm skipped on the record. As I was determined to get this song recorded, my roommate Ray and I doodled with the anti-skate setting. I figured out that by moving that knob at the right instant, I could get past the skip in the guitar pickup notes, and then by turning it fully to the other side, I’d slip through the second skip in the groove. I got my recording.
Then I thought it might make sense to look for the song on LP. Since the artist was not listed on the 45, we had to guess at who the singer might be. Ray suggested Buck Owens, and at the local record store we learned that Buck had indeed recorded the song. I was hesitant to buy the LP without being sure, so I held off to await further data.
From 1979 to the early 1990s, I listened to my tape of “Hello Trouble” and didn’t buy Buck’s version. But when his box set came out, I couldn’t resist. Instead of being unable to pull the trigger on a $5 vinyl purchase, I dropped $30 on Buck’s box. I ran home and dropped the laser on “Hello Trouble.” And I’ll be darned if it wasn’t the wrong version. Way wrong, not even similar to the one I had loved for thirty years.
You see, Buck had his way of doing songs. I have made a medley of Buck Owens intros from the early days of his Bakersfield Sound, and you’ll see that it’s not much of a stretch to go from these recordings to a cookie-cutter-Buck version of “Hello Trouble.” But it’s not the way the song should have been done. Considering that I have heard the song covered later by the Desert Rose Band and others in the Buck Owens style, rather than in the original manner, I am a bit miffed still at Buck. He changed the chords in the chorus, for crying out loud. And since he let Wynn Stewart give him his break in music without giving back much, Buck and I are going to have a little chat in about sixty years.
So, having eliminated Buck from the running for singer of “Hello Trouble,” I bothered to do some research. I learned that the song’s writer, Orville Couch (1935-2002), had taken the song to #5 on the country charts, with the run beginning on 11/24/1962 and lasting 21 weeks. His version, Vee Jay 470, was not available on CD. So that search stalled.
But I went to Nashville to check out the scene in 1996, and in a store full of 45s I found “Hello Trouble” by Orville Couch. The store had turntables, so I dropped the needle on it, and . . . it wasn’t my version. It was far closer than Buck’s, but I suddenly knew what was going on. I owned six soundalikes of early-1963 country hits. The actual hits are:
Artist-Title-Peak-Debut
Orville Couch, “Hello Trouble” #5 11/24/1962
Unknown, “World of Forgotten People” Not a Top 40 hit
Kitty Wells, “We Missed You” #7 11/3/1962
Stonewall Jackson, “Can’t Hang Up the Phone” #11 1/26/1963
Unknown, “Safely in Love Again” Not a Top 40 hit
Porter Wagoner, “I’ve Enjoyed As Much of This As I Can Stand” #7 12/8/1962
All of my versions are soundalikes. Since 1996, I have been looking for a cleaner copy of this 45, but I can’t even get anyone to confirm that Big 6 Records existed. What I can say about the song is that, of the three concurrent versions of “Hello Trouble,” my Big 6 cut is the smoothest and most listenable. It’s the version I learned to love, it’s true, but the harmonica in the Couch version is far too sappy, and Buck took the song to Bakersfield and never gave it back.
One thought comes to mind. When Billboard calculated jukebox plays for chart purposes, Couch et al. would not be getting credit for the plays of Big 6 45s. That makes me think these songs could have climbed a bit higher on the chart were it not for this soundalike record. The same might hold true for songs that got the Hit Records treatment. At least the songwriters got their royalties. I think.
Speaking of them, Orville Couch posted 100 compositions with BMI, but none seems to rival the success of “Hello Trouble.” His co-writer, Eddie McDuff, shared credit on numerous Couch-McDuff composition. McDuff also wrote two tunes with Dorothy Barnett Couch, who I figure to be Orville’s wife. There’s not much more available on these guys.
And that’s “Hello Trouble” for you. Be sure to listen to all of the sounds, so you can see the complete picture. When I was three, I especially liked the line about letting Trouble “rest your shoes.” It was several years before I figured out that Trouble was a girl. I figured that out all at once, and I suspect this should be my theme song.
Saturday I’ll have another song from the B side, with commentary on the technology of the time. See you on the flip side!
Big 6, Hello Trouble
Orville Couch, Hello Trouble
Buck Owens intro medley
Buck Owens, Hello Trouble
Big 6 Hello Trouble label scan
The other thing I did at the Dwyer Café was stare at the jukebox. Three-year-old caithiseach couldn’t get enough of this particular device. When someone ordered a song, a semicircular metal hook grabbed the correct 45, laid it on the platter, and the tonearm came over and began to play the record. My record player was manual, so seeing the mechanics of an automatic player up close never bored me. The tonearm also held a small brush to shoo dust away from the groove. I found that very elegant, and I asked for a brush for my first good turntable.
I played two songs on that jukebox a lot. One I will discuss next week, but the other one is legendary in my music collection. Uncle Tom didn’t get me this record; I got it myself. The song is called “Hello Trouble,” and it appeared on the Big 6 label. I will approach the story from the beginning, so you can see what I learned about the song as time went on.
The record was created to maximize jukebox record slots: it had three songs on each side, with very fine grooves. I had some EPs at home, so it didn’t surprise me to find a 45 with six hits on it. Something I never figured out, and still don’t understand, is how the tonearm could find the right spot to start the second and third songs. It was like magic; if you ordered “World of Forgotten People,” the needle dropped in exactly the right spot, just after “Hello Trouble.” And if you played “Hello Trouble,” you didn’t get the other two songs for free. If you know how this machine from the early 1960s worked, do tell.
I knew the jukebox man sometimes opened up the window and swapped out records. I learned to my horror one day that he was taking “Hello Trouble” away. My distress must have been evident, because he gave me the 45. As many times as I had played that song in Shoals, I could now play it a hundred times more often in Merrillville. The tragedy of losing the recording forever was averted, and I added a prized tune to the box of 45s when I got home.
From 1963 until 1979, I played “Hello Trouble” often. The 45 didn’t get Ground to Dust, because I had better needles then, but it got crackly, as you’ll soon see. The 45 went to college with me, and when I got a good turntable and an excellent tape deck, I decided to tape the song so I could retire the 45.
That was a bit of a challenge. The lighter tonearm skipped on the record. As I was determined to get this song recorded, my roommate Ray and I doodled with the anti-skate setting. I figured out that by moving that knob at the right instant, I could get past the skip in the guitar pickup notes, and then by turning it fully to the other side, I’d slip through the second skip in the groove. I got my recording.
Then I thought it might make sense to look for the song on LP. Since the artist was not listed on the 45, we had to guess at who the singer might be. Ray suggested Buck Owens, and at the local record store we learned that Buck had indeed recorded the song. I was hesitant to buy the LP without being sure, so I held off to await further data.
From 1979 to the early 1990s, I listened to my tape of “Hello Trouble” and didn’t buy Buck’s version. But when his box set came out, I couldn’t resist. Instead of being unable to pull the trigger on a $5 vinyl purchase, I dropped $30 on Buck’s box. I ran home and dropped the laser on “Hello Trouble.” And I’ll be darned if it wasn’t the wrong version. Way wrong, not even similar to the one I had loved for thirty years.
You see, Buck had his way of doing songs. I have made a medley of Buck Owens intros from the early days of his Bakersfield Sound, and you’ll see that it’s not much of a stretch to go from these recordings to a cookie-cutter-Buck version of “Hello Trouble.” But it’s not the way the song should have been done. Considering that I have heard the song covered later by the Desert Rose Band and others in the Buck Owens style, rather than in the original manner, I am a bit miffed still at Buck. He changed the chords in the chorus, for crying out loud. And since he let Wynn Stewart give him his break in music without giving back much, Buck and I are going to have a little chat in about sixty years.
So, having eliminated Buck from the running for singer of “Hello Trouble,” I bothered to do some research. I learned that the song’s writer, Orville Couch (1935-2002), had taken the song to #5 on the country charts, with the run beginning on 11/24/1962 and lasting 21 weeks. His version, Vee Jay 470, was not available on CD. So that search stalled.
But I went to Nashville to check out the scene in 1996, and in a store full of 45s I found “Hello Trouble” by Orville Couch. The store had turntables, so I dropped the needle on it, and . . . it wasn’t my version. It was far closer than Buck’s, but I suddenly knew what was going on. I owned six soundalikes of early-1963 country hits. The actual hits are:
Artist-Title-Peak-Debut
Orville Couch, “Hello Trouble” #5 11/24/1962
Unknown, “World of Forgotten People” Not a Top 40 hit
Kitty Wells, “We Missed You” #7 11/3/1962
Stonewall Jackson, “Can’t Hang Up the Phone” #11 1/26/1963
Unknown, “Safely in Love Again” Not a Top 40 hit
Porter Wagoner, “I’ve Enjoyed As Much of This As I Can Stand” #7 12/8/1962
All of my versions are soundalikes. Since 1996, I have been looking for a cleaner copy of this 45, but I can’t even get anyone to confirm that Big 6 Records existed. What I can say about the song is that, of the three concurrent versions of “Hello Trouble,” my Big 6 cut is the smoothest and most listenable. It’s the version I learned to love, it’s true, but the harmonica in the Couch version is far too sappy, and Buck took the song to Bakersfield and never gave it back.
One thought comes to mind. When Billboard calculated jukebox plays for chart purposes, Couch et al. would not be getting credit for the plays of Big 6 45s. That makes me think these songs could have climbed a bit higher on the chart were it not for this soundalike record. The same might hold true for songs that got the Hit Records treatment. At least the songwriters got their royalties. I think.
Speaking of them, Orville Couch posted 100 compositions with BMI, but none seems to rival the success of “Hello Trouble.” His co-writer, Eddie McDuff, shared credit on numerous Couch-McDuff composition. McDuff also wrote two tunes with Dorothy Barnett Couch, who I figure to be Orville’s wife. There’s not much more available on these guys.
And that’s “Hello Trouble” for you. Be sure to listen to all of the sounds, so you can see the complete picture. When I was three, I especially liked the line about letting Trouble “rest your shoes.” It was several years before I figured out that Trouble was a girl. I figured that out all at once, and I suspect this should be my theme song.
Saturday I’ll have another song from the B side, with commentary on the technology of the time. See you on the flip side!
Big 6, Hello Trouble
Orville Couch, Hello Trouble
Buck Owens intro medley
Buck Owens, Hello Trouble
Big 6 Hello Trouble label scan
Friday, April 11, 2008
My Dad
One has to remark on the weather when a foot of snow falls on April 11. So, wow.
I thought about holding today’s track for Father’s Day, but April 14 is my father’s birthday, so I decided to schedule this post now. It’s a good followup to Wednesday’s post, which featured a song from an LP my dad contributed to my collection.
I am going to talk about a two-sided single, which usually means two posts. But the second side isn’t going to impress many, so I’ll include its story here.
Today, and next week, I’ll talk about the phenomenon of soundalike records. Nowadays we find karaoke versions of hits on iTunes, as well as re-recordings by the Original Artist, and if one is not careful, 99 cents goes down the tubes for a piece of crap.
It seems a lot more legitimate to me that a label would dedicate itself to releasing covers of hit songs in versions that imitate the original carefully but clearly state that the artist is not the one who took the song onto the charts. That was the role of Hit Records in the 1960s, and thanks to the social innovations of bargain bins, nickels and generous uncles, I owned three or four Hit Records releases.
Today’s songs were on Hit 48, and the songs on that 45 were “My Dad” by Woody Martin and “Shake Me I Rattle (Squeeze Me I Cry)” by Connie Landers. The chart versions of these songs were, respectively, by Paul Petersen (#6, 1962-63) and Marion Worth (Country chart #14, 1963). Worth’s version of “Shake Me” is considered a Christmas hit by Joel Whitburn, yet it charted in February. This song charted again on 1/14/1978 as Cristy Lane’s second country hit, reaching #16.
“My Dad” was written by the 1960s juggernaut of Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. “Shake Me I Rattle” is the work of Charles Naylor and Hal Hackady. These two collaborated on numerous songs I don’t recognize, and Hackady wrote about 200 more songs than Naylor without turning in anything momentous.
Neither Petersen nor Worth matters to this post, because I didn’t hear their versions when I was a kid. I knew these songs only from my 45 cover versions. And those, I have to admit, both wound up Ground to Dust. In fact, the Connie Landers song was so ill-treated by three-year-old caithiseach that it developed several fatal skips. There was no way for me to recover it once I became an audio tech freak, so I bought another copy of the 45 online. I doubt very much that the Hit Records catalog will wind up on CD.
That is perhaps a sad fact, because Hit Records has an enormous cult following. This Nashville label, founded by Bill Beasley, seems to have been based on the premise that kids would buy knockoffs of hit songs at a bargain price (39 cents) just to have a version of the record when the chart hit was too expensive for them. It worked for a long time, so Beasley was right.
What makes the label a cult phenomenon is a combination of the quirkiness of some of the “sound-alikes” and the surprising roster of invisible musicians who participated in the recordings. You can find more details at these sites:
The Hit Records Project
Hit Records of Nashville
But I’ll give you some idea here. The Hit Records Christmas releases, for example, included Bobby Russell on vocals, Boots Randolph on xylophone (he played vibraphone as well as sax, so it’s evidently not a typo), and arrangements by Bill Justis. Bobby Russell went on to have a couple of minor hits of his own, but he scored big by writing “Honey” and “Watching Scotty Grow” for Bobby Goldsboro, “Little Green Apples” for O.C. Smith, and “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” for Vicki Lawrence. He also scored big by marrying Vicki Lawrence.
Beasley’s acts rarely appeared under their own names. He used the names of friends and business associates for artist pseudonyms, and he got playful from time to time. “She’s Just My Style,” originally recorded by Gary Lewis and the Playboys, was released on Hit 234 as by Jason Allen and the Gigolos. “Sounds of Silence” was credited to Sammy & Theodore. (If you don’t get the wordplay there, let me know.) And then some names, such as Alpha Zoe, seem to be pseudonyms but are the artist’s real name.
A notable industry figure who worked for Hit is Buzz Carson, who in the mainstream recording industry was brought in to record “Look for a Star” for Liberty Records under the name “Garry Miles.” Why? The original hit, from the film Circus of Horrors, was sung by a British vocalist, Garry Mills, and released on Imperial Records. The Garry Miles version was a bigger hit in the United States, partly because it caused confusion among consumers. In fact, the Joel Whitburn Top 40 book has the weeks of Top 40 entry reversed for the two recordings. That’s how confusing this ploy was. And that’s the sort of trick at which I would balk.
But Hit didn’t try to scam kids by using similar names. Hit tried to satisfy kids by providing reasonable sonic alternatives at an affordable price. And three-year-old caithiseach found today’s two recordings very satisfying.
First of all, I was a sucker for sentimentality back then. [Editor’s note: The premise of this blog indicates only a slight lessening in said sentimentality.] Both songs have heavy doses of that trait. Woody Martin’s “My Dad” is a close clone of the Paul Petersen version, and it is a song sung in praise of a father. Though I have no idea who Woody Martin really is, he is pretty good for a singer who was paid by the hour, or perhaps by the song. And for most of my life, I have had strong feelings of pride for my own father.
My dad was raised on a farm during the Great Depression. When he finished high school in Shoals, Indiana, he expected to be drafted into a two-year Army stint to help with the Korean War, so he chose to enlist in the Navy for four years and thus see the world.
He did see the world: he was assigned to the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Lake Champlain, and it traveled east from Florida through the Mediterranean Sea, and via the Suez Canal as far as Hong Kong. Then, because the carrier was too big to negotiate the Panama Canal, it did the trip in reverse. It stopped in nearly every country along the way; my dad had a sack full of coins of the various realms he visited: Ceylon, Portugal, Hong Kong, Japan, France. (He didn’t visit them in that order.)
At one point, a plane crash-landed on the deck of the carrier, and my dad rescued the pilot. He received a commendation for his efforts. He left the Navy and started working at U.S. Steel in Gary, Indiana. When I was little, I would hear him close the door to go off to work, and I would get up to watch him leave, exhaust trailing down the street behind his Pontiac. He was trained as an electrician, though, and eventually he shifted to that line of work, which he performed until he retired.
He told great stories, as did his father, as well as his grandfather. This story I am telling seems to stem from a genetic trait that these men gave me, and which I have passed on to my younger son.
My dad was not one to share his feelings without cause, but he wept openly before me when my mother died unexpectedly when I was nine. That gave him a lot of credibility with me during the dark years that followed her death.
What he did for me was allow me to be me. It didn’t bother him that I wanted to study languages and write for a living. He encouraged me to follow those interests. Because I loved baseball, he hit fly balls for me to catch, even though I couldn’t see for crap and once caught a fly ball with my elbow. He played Frisbee with me on many afternoons during my teen years, and we would talk. We both got good at throwing a Frisbee with both hands.
And now he lives in Indiana, and I live fourteen hours away in Minnesota, and there are days that I want to chuck it all and go live in the shed in his back yard so I can be there if he needs me.
Sentimentality. “Shake Me I Rattle” is laden with it. Connie Landers, who died at age 60 in 2005, aspired to a “real” singing career, and on the side she recorded a number of tunes for Hit Records while she was in college. This song, about a little girl who is looking through a store window at a doll she can’t afford, reminds me of the boys who drool over the toy display at the opening of the film A Christmas Story. The protagonist of this song, who wanted a similar doll when she was a child, buys it for the little girl.
As maudlin and dramatic as the song is, the concept of helping someone who yearns for something has always appealed to me. I have gotten my share of sweet surprises along the way, and I wish I had been more alert over the years to provide help to those who could use it. Combine those ideas with the memory of playing the song as my parents listened, and you know why I bothered to replace the damaged 45.
Monday is my dad’s birthday. Happy birthday, Dad.
I don’t think he knows I’m writing this blog. I suppose it’s time I tell him.
This post owes a lot to the thirty years of research Paul Urbahns has done on Hit Records. It’s a fascinating story, and you should check out the links I mentioned above.
Next week I will look at two songs from a sound-alike 45 apparently not associated with Hit Records. You’ll love them. See you Wednesday!
Woody Martin, My Dad
Connie Landers, Shake Me I Rattle
My Dad label scan
Shake Me I Rattle label scan
I thought about holding today’s track for Father’s Day, but April 14 is my father’s birthday, so I decided to schedule this post now. It’s a good followup to Wednesday’s post, which featured a song from an LP my dad contributed to my collection.
I am going to talk about a two-sided single, which usually means two posts. But the second side isn’t going to impress many, so I’ll include its story here.
Today, and next week, I’ll talk about the phenomenon of soundalike records. Nowadays we find karaoke versions of hits on iTunes, as well as re-recordings by the Original Artist, and if one is not careful, 99 cents goes down the tubes for a piece of crap.
It seems a lot more legitimate to me that a label would dedicate itself to releasing covers of hit songs in versions that imitate the original carefully but clearly state that the artist is not the one who took the song onto the charts. That was the role of Hit Records in the 1960s, and thanks to the social innovations of bargain bins, nickels and generous uncles, I owned three or four Hit Records releases.
Today’s songs were on Hit 48, and the songs on that 45 were “My Dad” by Woody Martin and “Shake Me I Rattle (Squeeze Me I Cry)” by Connie Landers. The chart versions of these songs were, respectively, by Paul Petersen (#6, 1962-63) and Marion Worth (Country chart #14, 1963). Worth’s version of “Shake Me” is considered a Christmas hit by Joel Whitburn, yet it charted in February. This song charted again on 1/14/1978 as Cristy Lane’s second country hit, reaching #16.
“My Dad” was written by the 1960s juggernaut of Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. “Shake Me I Rattle” is the work of Charles Naylor and Hal Hackady. These two collaborated on numerous songs I don’t recognize, and Hackady wrote about 200 more songs than Naylor without turning in anything momentous.
Neither Petersen nor Worth matters to this post, because I didn’t hear their versions when I was a kid. I knew these songs only from my 45 cover versions. And those, I have to admit, both wound up Ground to Dust. In fact, the Connie Landers song was so ill-treated by three-year-old caithiseach that it developed several fatal skips. There was no way for me to recover it once I became an audio tech freak, so I bought another copy of the 45 online. I doubt very much that the Hit Records catalog will wind up on CD.
That is perhaps a sad fact, because Hit Records has an enormous cult following. This Nashville label, founded by Bill Beasley, seems to have been based on the premise that kids would buy knockoffs of hit songs at a bargain price (39 cents) just to have a version of the record when the chart hit was too expensive for them. It worked for a long time, so Beasley was right.
What makes the label a cult phenomenon is a combination of the quirkiness of some of the “sound-alikes” and the surprising roster of invisible musicians who participated in the recordings. You can find more details at these sites:
The Hit Records Project
Hit Records of Nashville
But I’ll give you some idea here. The Hit Records Christmas releases, for example, included Bobby Russell on vocals, Boots Randolph on xylophone (he played vibraphone as well as sax, so it’s evidently not a typo), and arrangements by Bill Justis. Bobby Russell went on to have a couple of minor hits of his own, but he scored big by writing “Honey” and “Watching Scotty Grow” for Bobby Goldsboro, “Little Green Apples” for O.C. Smith, and “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” for Vicki Lawrence. He also scored big by marrying Vicki Lawrence.
Beasley’s acts rarely appeared under their own names. He used the names of friends and business associates for artist pseudonyms, and he got playful from time to time. “She’s Just My Style,” originally recorded by Gary Lewis and the Playboys, was released on Hit 234 as by Jason Allen and the Gigolos. “Sounds of Silence” was credited to Sammy & Theodore. (If you don’t get the wordplay there, let me know.) And then some names, such as Alpha Zoe, seem to be pseudonyms but are the artist’s real name.
A notable industry figure who worked for Hit is Buzz Carson, who in the mainstream recording industry was brought in to record “Look for a Star” for Liberty Records under the name “Garry Miles.” Why? The original hit, from the film Circus of Horrors, was sung by a British vocalist, Garry Mills, and released on Imperial Records. The Garry Miles version was a bigger hit in the United States, partly because it caused confusion among consumers. In fact, the Joel Whitburn Top 40 book has the weeks of Top 40 entry reversed for the two recordings. That’s how confusing this ploy was. And that’s the sort of trick at which I would balk.
But Hit didn’t try to scam kids by using similar names. Hit tried to satisfy kids by providing reasonable sonic alternatives at an affordable price. And three-year-old caithiseach found today’s two recordings very satisfying.
First of all, I was a sucker for sentimentality back then. [Editor’s note: The premise of this blog indicates only a slight lessening in said sentimentality.] Both songs have heavy doses of that trait. Woody Martin’s “My Dad” is a close clone of the Paul Petersen version, and it is a song sung in praise of a father. Though I have no idea who Woody Martin really is, he is pretty good for a singer who was paid by the hour, or perhaps by the song. And for most of my life, I have had strong feelings of pride for my own father.
My dad was raised on a farm during the Great Depression. When he finished high school in Shoals, Indiana, he expected to be drafted into a two-year Army stint to help with the Korean War, so he chose to enlist in the Navy for four years and thus see the world.
He did see the world: he was assigned to the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Lake Champlain, and it traveled east from Florida through the Mediterranean Sea, and via the Suez Canal as far as Hong Kong. Then, because the carrier was too big to negotiate the Panama Canal, it did the trip in reverse. It stopped in nearly every country along the way; my dad had a sack full of coins of the various realms he visited: Ceylon, Portugal, Hong Kong, Japan, France. (He didn’t visit them in that order.)
At one point, a plane crash-landed on the deck of the carrier, and my dad rescued the pilot. He received a commendation for his efforts. He left the Navy and started working at U.S. Steel in Gary, Indiana. When I was little, I would hear him close the door to go off to work, and I would get up to watch him leave, exhaust trailing down the street behind his Pontiac. He was trained as an electrician, though, and eventually he shifted to that line of work, which he performed until he retired.
He told great stories, as did his father, as well as his grandfather. This story I am telling seems to stem from a genetic trait that these men gave me, and which I have passed on to my younger son.
My dad was not one to share his feelings without cause, but he wept openly before me when my mother died unexpectedly when I was nine. That gave him a lot of credibility with me during the dark years that followed her death.
What he did for me was allow me to be me. It didn’t bother him that I wanted to study languages and write for a living. He encouraged me to follow those interests. Because I loved baseball, he hit fly balls for me to catch, even though I couldn’t see for crap and once caught a fly ball with my elbow. He played Frisbee with me on many afternoons during my teen years, and we would talk. We both got good at throwing a Frisbee with both hands.
And now he lives in Indiana, and I live fourteen hours away in Minnesota, and there are days that I want to chuck it all and go live in the shed in his back yard so I can be there if he needs me.
Sentimentality. “Shake Me I Rattle” is laden with it. Connie Landers, who died at age 60 in 2005, aspired to a “real” singing career, and on the side she recorded a number of tunes for Hit Records while she was in college. This song, about a little girl who is looking through a store window at a doll she can’t afford, reminds me of the boys who drool over the toy display at the opening of the film A Christmas Story. The protagonist of this song, who wanted a similar doll when she was a child, buys it for the little girl.
As maudlin and dramatic as the song is, the concept of helping someone who yearns for something has always appealed to me. I have gotten my share of sweet surprises along the way, and I wish I had been more alert over the years to provide help to those who could use it. Combine those ideas with the memory of playing the song as my parents listened, and you know why I bothered to replace the damaged 45.
Monday is my dad’s birthday. Happy birthday, Dad.
I don’t think he knows I’m writing this blog. I suppose it’s time I tell him.
This post owes a lot to the thirty years of research Paul Urbahns has done on Hit Records. It’s a fascinating story, and you should check out the links I mentioned above.
Next week I will look at two songs from a sound-alike 45 apparently not associated with Hit Records. You’ll love them. See you Wednesday!
Woody Martin, My Dad
Connie Landers, Shake Me I Rattle
My Dad label scan
Shake Me I Rattle label scan
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