In my quest to isolate the top one hundred songs of all time, I solicited feedback ~ got none. But it's never too late; you can still comment here.
I may have started with a false premise. I tried to simplify the process by listing the best, or most famous artists and asking for a favorite song by each. Maybe the top one hundred is not composed of the world's most renowned artists. Maybe every single one of the top songs is a one-hit wonder. It could be true. After all, everybody's got one great song inside them; am I right?
In fact, here's one:
In the cold light of reality, I started my own list.
Here's a category:
Any Instrumental
I have three:
Admittedly, this is difficult. I can't even land on one instrumental.
But it's not impossible.
Slowly, we'll get there. And by "we", I apparently mean "me". But don't be shy ~ try it; it's fun!
There was a time when I watched award shows religiously. I'm not sure why ~ perhaps to confirm that my favorites had the proper cachet and to bitch about the wrong choices the so-called judges made. Of course, that was long before I understood that awards are bought and paid for and perpetually political (I actually prefer the naive me.)
I generally was lost with the Oscars, since I'd managed to see approximately one of the nominated films, and the flick I caught never won anything. The Grammys were kind of a high-brow joke (even to the naive me) because inevitably the winners would be the industry-coronated choices (as opposed to anything any sane person would actually listen to.) "The Girl From Ipanema" beat out "I Want To Hold Your Hand" for record of the year; and you know how often we hum the melody of "Girl From Ipanema".
The Emmys were more my speed because I definitely knew how to watch TV and I was familiar with most of the nominees. The CMA Awards, however, was my show of choice. I did know my country music and frankly, my taste was eminently superior to most. Plus I was a Country Music Association member and thus got to pencil in my choices on the paper ballot.
I like to flip on the TV at night before bedtime because the hypnotic rays tend to lull me to sleep, so I tuned into the first five minutes of the Grammys last Sunday night. I will admit, I was confused. Some gal was inhabiting different rooms of a home and brushing her hair and bouncing on the bed with a stuffed bunny; and then someone I thought was Justin Timberlake (who I later learned was Ricky Martin ~ I wasn't wearing my glasses) joined her in the number and someone I was supposed to know played the trumpet. And then some other guy piped in.
Nevertheless I kept watching. The evening's host, Alicia Keys, soon showed up with four gals, only one of whom I recognized (granted, Jennifer Lopez was hidden behind a humongous broad-brimmed hat). The one I knew was Michelle Obama, and I thought, okay ~ she's a music icon. I did see Dolly Parton in the audience; the only person I actually recognized. And then I flipped the TV off.
So I can now say I watched the 2019 Grammys.
I've now decided to create my own awards, The Shellys. The categories are completely capricious, based on whatever the hell I feel like bestowing.
Thus:
Best Roots Recording
Nominees:
Buddy Holly ~ Rave On
Jerry Lee Lewis ~ Breathless
Eddie Cochran ~ Summertime Blues
Chuck Berry ~ Roll Over Beethoven
The Everly Brothers ~ Bye Bye Love
The Winner:
Best Rock Song From the Year I Graduated High School:
Nominees:
Drift Away ~ Dobie Gray
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ~ Elton John
Stuck In The Middle With You ~ Stealers Wheel
Loves Me Like A Rock ~ Paul Simon
Reelin' In The Years ~ Steely Dan
The Winner:
Best Song My Big Brother Told Me I Should Like:
Nominees:
The Rain, The Park, and Other Things ~ Cowsills Rainy Day Woman #12 and 35 ~ Bob Dylan Another Saturday Night ~ Sam Cooke Telstar ~ The Tornados Where Have All The Flowers Gone ~ Johnny Rivers
And the award goes to:
Best Beatles Song:
The Nominees: I'm Only Sleeping You Won't See Me You're Gonna Lose That Girl Good Day Sunshine We Can Work It Out There is no live video to be found of the winner. However, the first runner-up (Ringo) will accept the award (I have a sneaking suspicion all the Beatles videos have been removed from YouTube. Thanks. Paul.):
Best Hit From 1965:
Nominees:
California Girls ~ The Beach Boys
I Can't Help Myself ~ The Four Tops
Ticket To Ride ~ The Beatles
Baby, The Rain Must Fall ~ Glenn Yarbrough
My Girl ~ The Temptations
The winner (not even close):
Best Music Video of the '80's:
Nominees:
Raspberry Beret ~ Prince Take On Me ~ a-ha Sledgehammer ~ Peter Gabriel Money For Nothing ~ Dire Straits Nothing Compares 2U ~ Sinead O'Connor The Shelly goes to:
My Favorite '80's Act:
Hall and Oates Huey Lewis and The News Prince Phil Collins Elton John This was so close:
Best Upbeat Song:
Walkin' On Sunshine ~ Katrina and The Waves
Morning Train ~ Sheena Easton
Happy Together ~ The Turtles
Beautiful Day ~ U2
I Wanna Dance With Somebody ~ Whitney Houston
Of course, the winner is this:
Song That Scared The Crap Out Of Me (or at least befuddled me) As A Kid:
They're Coming To Take Me Away ~ Napoleon XIV
Fire ~ The Crazy World of Arthur Brown
Running Bear ~ Johnny Preston
Last Kiss ~ J Frank Wilson
Devil Or Angel ~ Bobby Vee
Hands down:
Best Dion and The Belmonts Song:
The Wanderer
Ruby Baby
I Wonder Why
Lovers Who Wander
Runaround Sue
Again, a tight competition, but Dion DiMucci doesn't care, because he's a winner, regardless:
Best Hair Band:
Van Halen
Bon Jovi
Whitesnake
Guns 'n Roses
Def Leppard
I'm not a big fan of hair, except for:
Cheesiest '70's Song:
Loving You ~ Minnie Riperton
Billy, Don't Be A Hero ~ Bo Donaldson and The Heywoods
Seasons In The Sun ~ Terry Jacks
Muskrat Love ~ The Captain and Tenille
Havin' My Baby ~ Paul Anka
You Light Up My Life ~ Debby Boone
Afternoon Delight ~ Starland Vocal Band
Yes, there are seven nominees, because it's impossible to narrow this category down to five.
This one wins only because I can't bear to post any of the others:
Hey, look at the time! Well, the show has run far over its designated time, so tune in again next year for more Shelly Awards!
And all you forgotten acts, you're welcome! It's time you got your due!
In 1962 all everybody cared about was space. Not me, mind you. I know everyone was supposed to be in awe of space travel, but all I knew was that the "astronaut" zipped through the sky in a "capsule", of which my only frame of reference was an Excedrin my mom took for a headache. When I was still in first grade that winter, my teacher wheeled a portable TV into our classroom so we could watch John Glenn do whatever he was doing. I was more fascinated by the diorama of songbirds Mrs. Fisher had built in a back corner of the room.
I wasn't completely disinterested in space. I did like this:
My interests were simple at age seven-going-on-eight. I got a sparkly paint set for Christmas and I liked dabbing it into my coloring book--sapphires and emeralds and rubies. I loved my phonograph. I had paper dolls-- cardboard cutouts of (generally) girls or sometimes someone older, like Patty Duke, for which one would cut outfits out of the book and drape them on the cardboard figure with little paper tabs that folded across the model's shoulders and hips.
I liked TV. I never gave a second thought to the fact all the actors on television were black and white, whereas the real world bloomed with color. I would watch anything, which included my mom's soap operas. I learned that doctors led really melodramatic lives; at least Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey did. Matt Dillon was a sheriff of few words; Alfred Hitchcock was a fat scary man. Ed Sullivan had a lot of really crappy acts on his show, even a guy who talked with his hand and one whose claim to fame was spinning plates in the air. Lawrence Welk was woefully out of date, but my dad liked him. Game shows were a staple of prime time--they required you to "guess" something--what someone's job was or which one, out of three gamesters, was actually telling the truth. I lay on my stomach right in front of our big TV and absorbed every single thing that flashed on the screen. My favorite shows, by far, were Dick Van Dyke and The Andy Griffith Show.
In the fall, when I entered second grade, I transferred to Valley Elementary, which was a brand-spanking new school. I would spend four and a half years at Valley; years that would shape me into a semblance of a human person. Valley was where I would write and perform a play at the Hootenanny. Valley was where I would be chosen by my teacher to become part of the safety patrol, an awesomely responsible post in which I got to carry an official flag. Valley was where I blossomed, albeit temporarily, and learned to embrace my creativity.
In second grade, though, life was terribly mundane. I did worksheets and printed words on rough double-lined paper tablets, when I really preferred to write in cursive, which we weren't allowed to "learn" yet. I was a bit ahead of most of my classmates because my big sister had already taught me how to read and write before I even began kindergarten. However, one was not permitted to outdistance one's peers, so I was bored and fidgety. I did discover the school library, which flowered a whole new world. I devoured Laura Ingalls Wilder books, all eight of them; and then moved on to other biographies. I read every book in the library that was worth reading.
My mom bought me a lunch ticket every month, which the lunch matron punched each time I alighted the line of horizontal aluminum bars and plastic trays. I understand now why I was so skinny. Some people have fond memories of school lunches. Those people are freaks. I dumped more food in the giant trash receptacle than I ever ate. Nothing in the line ever looked appetizing--hamburger mush, gloppy mashed potatoes, possibly accompanied by carrot sticks, which were at least edible. Mini-cartons of milk were the only saving grace. Fridays were always fish sticks, in honor of the Lord. Granted, I was a very picky eater, but "Spanish rice" combined all the ingredients of horror.
The most consequential event of my second grade year was when the school caught on fire. It was a dreary sun-deprived winter day. I don't remember even smelling smoke, but our teacher hastily informed us that the "superintendent" (which was what the head janitor was called) had informed her that fire had broken out somewhere in the vicinity of the furnace room. We were all shepherded out to waiting buses (single file, of course), and a gaggle of teachers alighted the open bus doors and dumped cardboard boxes of rubber snow boots onto the slippery stairs, from which we confusedly tried to snatch a matching pair. I arrived home with two red boots, one of them two sizes too large for my feet. I guess I was lucky to escape the (supposedly) roaring blaze, but I was mostly upset that I couldn't gracefully clomp through snowbanks wearing one jumbo boot.
Apparently the school was grievously damaged, because my class ended up attending class in the hallway of a neighboring elementary building for two very long weeks, with kids who belonged there staring derisively at us as they made their way to the lavatory.
In music, my tastes were influenced by my big sisters -- actually one big sister. My oldest sister was mercurial. She flitted in and out of the house like a sprite, mostly unseen. She was eighteen after all, and soon to march down the aisle. My sisters shared a record collection, however -- all '45's. My brother had yet to blow my mind with actual reams of astounding LP's. So I lived in a world of little vinyl discs. And unlike my brother, my sister didn't care if I played her collection. Her tastes, however, leaned heavily toward Elvis Presley, who I always wanted to like, but for the life of me just couldn't.
I think my favorite record my sister owned in 1962 was this, and I don't quite remember why:
One of the few times I remember my oldest sister being around, she and Rosemary did a little demo on our kitchen linoleum in front of Mom and me of this dance; and Mom, by the way, was mightily impressed (although in reality, it's a pretty easy dance, and I don't know why they called him "chubby"):
But, as the early sixties could do, popular music often devolved into syrup. I don't know anything about Bobby Vinton, except that he recorded the cheesiest songs this side of Bobby Goldsboro. But, hey, it worked for him. Bobby Vinton was an early-sixties phenomenon, with recordings like this:
One artist Rosemary liked a lot that I could get on board with was Dion. She had good taste.
My sisters shared an album that was, I think, one of two long-playing records they owned (I wonder how they divided their record collection once Carole was married). It's sort of funny in hindsight that this was considered pop music, when in actuality it foreshadowed my immersion into country, but, truly, it was pop in 1962:
This was neither pop nor country nor anything other than, I guess, Broadway, but Gene Pitney was a sensation in 1962. And rightfully so:
Every era produces timeless artists (so they say). My sister can claim these as hers:
The truth is, we and radio were a bit behind the times. So the hits of 1962 were probably not on any of our radar until '63. Not that it matters. My family owned a circular cardboard ice cream container of 45-RPM records, some of which I have no doubt my parents picked up at rummage sales, and we played them all on a scratchy phonograph.
It wasn't so much a year as a feeling. A reminiscence of soot and red rubber snow boots and twisting in the kitchen.
It occurred to me tonight that throughout my life, the majority of my music-listening has been solitary. It's not that I'm anti-social (though sometimes I am), but sharing music is a gamble. I like what I like, and I don't need somebody telling me, "That song sucks." Maybe it does, but maybe there's a reason I like it that you wouldn't understand. Maybe it takes me back to a special time in my life that you can't relate to, because you weren't there. I was never one to say, "Hey, listen to this," because if I loved a song and the other person didn't get it, my feelings would be hurt. Thus, my musical "sharing" happened organically.
I can say essentially that there were three periods in my life when I shared music.
1. My big brother
Okay, technically, I didn't share music with my brother. He shared with me. Honestly, if it wasn't for my big brother, I think my musical life would have been paltry -- sort of like those old dudes driving big Cadillacs, puffing on big cigars, who slip a CD into the changer to show you how "hip" they are -- and the CD is by John Mayer.
Before I even knew what music was, my big brother pointed at the big radio in our kitchen and schooled me in good music and bad. I was little more than five years old.
The first song he taught me was "good" was by a group called the Tornados. I believe the year was 1962.
Technology, as people naively called it then, was the next big thing. I didn't know that Telstar was a satellite. I thought it was some kind of rocket ship. My big brother was a teenager, so phenomenons like John Glenn going 'round and 'round the earth was a revelation. I watched Glenn's blast-off (or whatever they called it) on a tiny black and white TV in my first-grade classroom and I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I guess one needed to be older and more mature, like my fifteen-year-old brother, to truly grasp the magnitude of the event.
My big brother introduced me to Bob Dylan, who he told me was really Robert Zimmerman, from Hibbing, Minnesota. I was confused why Robert Zimmerman wanted to change his name, but I was proud that he was from Minnesota, just like me. My brother chuckled over this song. I figured it was because it was so ragtime.
The thing my brother did that sent me flying toward the rest of my life was to clue me in to albums. I was a singles girl -- I rarely could gather enough spare change to purchase one measly '45 at Poplar's Music, and at that, my indecision was excruciating. It was a monumental choice; one that my whole life depended on. If I chose wrong, my existence would be ruined. My big brother, on the other hand, slipped albums 'neath his coat like he'd just popped a stick of Black Jack chewing gum between his gums.
My big brother showed me a brown and white LP called "The Beatles Second Album". I thought the Beatles were awesome and such good songwriters -- with songs like this:
Granted, it was 1964 and I had no knowledge of musical history. Thus, I naturally assumed the songs on the album were all originals.
Later, my brother would show me LP's like "Help!" and "Rubber Soul". By then I was gone -- besotted -- immersed.
If I have anyone to thank for my lot in life, and I surely do, it was MY BIG BROTHER.
2. My grade school best friend
The early sixties was a time that was innocent in its naivete. What did we know at age ten? We thought the whole wide world rained exquisite songs. And it did, then. Superb singles were as abundant as the lacy snowflakes we caught on our tongues.
We were so jaded then. "This song is great, but I can't wait for the next one." "Yea, the Beach Boys. They're so nineteen-sixty-three." My best friend, Cathy, and I, traversed the Louis Murray Bridge on sultry summer Saturdays to partake in the YWCA dances, which consisted of twenty-six gangly fifth-grade girls doing the Jerk to singles buzzed on a record player, like:
3. Alice
Alice and I dragged Main Street in 1973 in her mud-brown Chrysler. Alice was the best friend I didn't deserve to have. If she were still living, I'd think about asking her what she ever saw in me. I brought nothing of import to the table. Perhaps I had a good sense of humor and she appreciated that. Other than that, I got nothin'.
In 1973, we were about to turn eighteen -- the magic number. Life was a soon-to-be-devoured feast we'd yet to conjure. We shared the music blaring out of the tinny AM car radio, the wide-open windows tossing our hair in the breeze. The nights were starry and still. Country fanatics that we were, it's strange that we had the radio tuned to KFYR, the local rock station. I think maybe rock was more apropos for the timbre of the times, more befitting the nights.
There are songs from then, from 1973, that remind me of those nights. Here are the ones I remember most because they were played the most:
All that aside, there were two songs -- two songs -- that crystallized 1973 for Alice and me. Here is the first:
And here is our anthem.
We sang along with it, over and over and over. We were in love with it. The stars, the blade-sharp black sky. The hot, yet cool, arm-tingling promise of the night. If I close my eyes I can see Alice now, gliding the car down the double-strip street, her blue eyes sparkling with a giggle, her blonde bangs fluttering in her eyes . We sang bad harmony -- she was the singer; I was the pretender. We sang at the top of our lungs; sang at the sleepy denizens whose misfortune it was to dwell in second-story apartments above Conlin's Furniture Store, in apartments in the top stories of the old Patterson Hotel.
We sang along with:
Music alone is fine. I can conjure my own memories. The trouble with that is, nobody else knows. And sometimes I get weary of no one else knowing; of pretending that that one special person is in the room with me as the song unwinds, but they're not.
If you find that special song, life is superb if someone else knows it's special, too.
In my previous post, I tried to note some of the very early 1960's songs that were major hits, but have somehow gotten lost amidst the sheer numbers of songs that have been released throughout the years.
As I write this, I'm not working from a list of any kind. I'm just going on memory here. If something rings a bell (ding!) in the recesses of my memory, I try to find it on YouTube.
So, here is where my mind is taking me tonight: SAM THE SHAM & THE PHARAOHS - WOOLY BULLY This was the biggest selling song of 1965. 1965? Really? I wouldn't have guessed 1965. I remember hearing the song on the radio. It was catchy. I, at my tender age, didn't know what "sham" meant. So, I just figured they were real Arabian guys - hey, what did I know? I was 10 years old, for pete's sake. In hindsight, I realize that he seemed to be well versed in the English language, with nary a hint of an Arabian accent. Later, much later, I found out that "Sam" was really Domingo Samudio, from Texas. Kind of disillusioning. On a side note, the reason I don't dance anymore is because I would dance exactly like they're dancing in this video. That would kind of date me.
THE VOGUES - FIVE O'CLOCK WORLD Well, whaddaya know? This song was from 1965! This is one of my all-time favorite songs. I even have it on my MP3 player. I saw the Vogues in concert. They played a gig at Lee's Steakhouse, in the basement (Lissa, help me out here. What was the name of the bar?) This was in the early '70's. They put on a great show, and I was very impressed. Not to digress here, but I saw a few major acts in Lee's Steakhouse basement bar. I saw the Doobie Brothers there, too. I had forgotten about that until just this minute. Admittedly, I was underage, but that's neither here nor there. Geez, I'd totally forgotten about that. I guess I saw some great shows that I didn't even know I'd seen. But back to the song at hand, did I say I love this song? I do. THE RIGHTEOUS BROTHERS - YOU'VE LOST THAT LOVIN' FEELIN' Okay, this is getting a bit spooky, but apparently, this song was also released in 1965. Here'e what I remember....Shindig was on Wednesday nights. Unfortunately, I also had my accordion lessons on Wednesday nights (DAMN YOU, ACCORDION LESSONS!) The biggest stress I had at that time was that I did NOT want to miss Shindig. And the artists who I remember most vividly from Shindig were The Righteous Brothers. I'm guessing they were on there every week ~ whaddya think? The Righteous Brothers were RIGHTEOUS; there's just no two ways about it. Bill Medley, Bobby Hatfield. Back then, "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" wasn't even my favorite Righteous Brothers song. It was "(You're My) Soul & Inspiration". Funny story......I had a birthday party when I was nine (I think). I had all my friends from school, plus my best friend, Cathy, who didn't go to my school. Some of my friends asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I told Cathy I wanted something by Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass (I can't even remember which song it was!) and I told my friend, Debbie Fischer, that I wanted the single, "(You're My) Soul & Inspiration" by the Righteous Brothers. Well, when I opened my gifts, I made the mistake of saying, "Oh, just what I wanted!" (in reaction to the RB song), and that set off a big snit by my friend, Cathy. So, I somehow had to smooth that over. And I haven't heard from Cathy in about 43 years. I guess she really holds a grudge.
THE TORNADOS - TELSTAR Can't actually find a live performance of this song, but it's still kinda cool watching the guy put the record on his turntable (ummm... what's a turntable?) Ha ha - I'm just kidding. This song was NOT from 1965, so that's a plus. I like this one. It reminds me of those JFK years, when my brother was trying to tell me what to think and what was what, and I blindly went along, because I was just a kid. And we were all gung ho about going into space, for whatever reason, but I just liked the song. SAM COOKE - TWISTIN' THE NIGHT AWAY I couldn't NOT acknowledge Sam Cooke here. Everyone seems to have forgotten him. That's a real travesty. He was a SUPERB artist. This is not the video I would have chosen, but it's one of the few that actually shows a live performance by Sam. I think we would do well to not forget Sam Cooke. If Sam was alive today, we'd probably all be swooning over his songs. As is, it's good to remind people of what a unique talent he was.
LESLEY GORE - IT'S MY PARTY This hit song, from 1963, was produced by Quincy Jones. Yes, THAT Quincy Jones, who also produced Michael Jackson. Lesley does a fine job lip-syncing here, despite the distraction of the dancers, who are over-dancing, if that is a word. I like, though, that the guys on the dance floor are all wearing suits and ties. You just don't see that anymore. Very respectful. Their moms told them to dress up. This created resentment in later years, so they all let their hair grow out and they got tangled up in the drug world of Haight-Ashbury. They are now all mortgage brokers. Just a bit of trivia and follow-up.
I like to end my posts with something special. Here is something special: ROY ORBISON - OH, PRETTY WOMAN My stance has always been this: This is the quintessential rock and roll song. If one was forced to choose one song that represented rock music, I feel this would be the ideal choice.
So, onwards and upwards. There are many songs and artists yet to explore.
P.S. I had originally included Gary Lewis & The Playboys in this post, but some moron deleted the video from YouTube.
