50 Years Ago Today ~ The Top 40 Singles of the Week

(Not a big week for news. Is that Robert Plant? Kidding.)

 

 In our continuing retrospective of 1969, I thought I'd take a peek at the top forty chart for the week of March 29 fifty years ago.

What was I doing fifty years ago? Well, there was a documentary on TV about the Amazon River that Mr. Reisenauer assigned his geography class to watch. I was probably the only one who watched it ~ and took notes. I wanted an A on that quiz! (and I got one). The April Fool's edition of TV Guide had landed in our mailbox. Alice and I always giggled over the episode descriptions:  Gomer Pyle, USMC:  "Gomer changes a lightbulb." Saturday night sucked for TV. I could either watch Lawrence Welk, Adam-12, or My Three Sons (I chose "none of the above"). So, I, of course, played records.

And speaking of records, "Dizzy" by Tommy Roe still held the top spot on the charts. There's a big difference between the charts and 45-RPM singles ~ with records I could play songs I actually liked anytime I wanted, as opposed to the putrid offerings on AM radio.

Such as the #2 song on the charts, by a group that didn't really think through its name. If you've gotta add a Roman numeral to your band name, you've already lost. Nevertheless, here are the Classics IV:

The Zombies held the third spot with a much better song, and one that is played all these fifty years later. "What's your name? Who's your daddy? Is he rich (is he rich) like me?" So many questions:

I'll just skip anything written by Jimmy Webb, because Jimmy Webb sucks. But here's something I bet you've never heard (kidding). The #5 single of the week sounds great now, but trust me, in '69 it was like someone's obnoxious ringtone that seared your every nerve, because the song was inescapable.

Let's skip to #11, because the rest of the top ten hits only the biggest sixties geek would even remember. I like this one, and for some reason I'm thinking it's been featured lately in a television commercial. The Foundations:

In scanning the charts for the week, it's interesting how many songs are utterly forgettable. Like most every year of our lives, we remember events that either touched us or infuriated us or in retrospect, actually mattered. Musically, I'm not sure what mattered. Not a lot.

But to leave you with something from the year 1969, here is a song that was new on the charts on March 29:

2019 Country Music Hall of Fame Inductees ~ Part II

There was an NBC prime time series that debuted in 1991 called "Hot Country Nights". The producer was Dick Clark, who had been around longer than God. Dick Clark knew his music ~ he'd had his ear to the ground since sometime before I was a glimmer in my mom's eye. Of course, Dick also created the Academy of Country Music Awards, which was a bastardized version of the CMA's and even sparklier than Nashville rhinestones.

But to his credit, he discovered a hole in the '91 TV schedule and decided that country music might be a good hole-filler. He was right. Entertainment news wasn't ubiquitous then, so the program took me by (pleasant) surprise. I flipped on my TV, plopped down on my couch on a Sunday night at 7:00 and what the heck ~ country music? There was Pam Tillis! Look ~ Clint Black! And the show was almost all music; with only a few hokey "comedy skits", which allowed me to toddle off for a bathroom break. The following week's episode was even better:  Kathy Mattea, Highway 101, Randy Travis, Dwight Yoakam (!!) I distinctly recall two performances from the series: Travis Tritt with an acoustic guitar doing "Anymore" and a delicious country shuffle called, "Down To My Next Broken Heart" performed by a new country duo:

Ahh, life was good. I got to see Patty Loveless, the Kentucky Headhunters, Marty Stuart, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Steve Wariner, Suzy Bogguss, Restless Heart, Vince Gill, Holly Dunn, Trisha Yearwood, Collin Raye, Ricky Van Shelton, and Eddie Rabbitt.

Alas, the fun ended in the gloomy late winter of 1992, and there's not been a network country music performance series since. 

Which leads me to this year's inductee to the Country Music Hall of Fame from the "modern era". Oh look! There they are, performing in the video above!

I have no quibble with Brooks and Dunn garnering the singular spot. They hit the ground running in 1991 and made country music a little bit better. "Neon Moon" is a classic. Their second album was a letdown, but it still had Boot Scootin' Boogie. I got to see them in concert sometime around 2000. By then, they were mostly existing on past laurels, but they had this one song....

Anybody who thinks of Kix Brooks as an unnecessary appendage needs to get a load of this songwriting:

Maybe only someone who prays to write a song like this can fully appreciate it.

I learned the path to heaven
Is full of sinners and believers
Learned that happiness on earth
Ain't just for high achievers

Try putting together a philosophy like that. And make it rhyme.

I will note that there are many, many acts from that splendid time in music that also deserve a spot in the Hall of Fame, but alas, most of them won't get the chance. Everybody posting on that one certain website I follow seems to think Dwight will get in for sure. I don't know if there is a bigger Dwight Yoakam fan than me, but I'm skeptical. Dwight never played the Nashville game. And you gotta play the game. If, by some lightning strike, he ever does get inducted, I will fully and repentantly admit my error.

My guess for the next inductees are The Judds. Mark it on your calendar. And you're welcome.

Meanwhile, why don't you and I chill to this:

2019 Country Music Hall of Fame Inductees ~ Part I

The Country Music Hall of Fame inductees were announced this week, and one would think, from the music sites I visit (okay, I only visit one site), that a thermonuclear blast had annihilated the planet.

I wonder if there's ever been a year when the recipients weren't at least a little controversial. The only quibble I ever had with the awards was that it took too damn many years for Bobby Bare to be enthroned (I mean, c'mon!) Also see "Bobby Bare Inducted Into The Hall of Fame ~ Thanks To Me!"

There are three categories for potential election to the Hall of Fame:

Modern Era ~ bestowed upon an artist who first gained prominence twenty years prior.

Veterans Era ~ those who achieved distinction at least 45 years ago.

Non-Performer ~ this category includes songwriters, producers, behind-the-scenes bigwigs, and basically anyone in the country music business who isn't an actual recording artist.

There is no guarantee that one or three or anybody will get elected (however, that's rather unlikely, especially in the veterans class, seeing as how there is a glut of artists who still haven't gotten their due).

But people are mad (mad!) that Ray Stevens will be inducted this year. They say it's political; that he lobbied the mysterious hall of fame people. (Can you really lobby for yourself? "I was just thinking; I'm pretty good. How about me?" That's a bit too obvious.) There's even a conspiracy theory that Ray was hanging out at last year's awards, making himself conspicuous; bringing people cups of coffee (okay, I made that last part up), just so they'd look at him and think, "Hey!"

I say, stop hating on Ray Stevens. And honestly, no one's world will end just because Mister Gitarzan's bust will be displayed in the museum. Those who forgot or weren't alive during Ray Stevens' heyday only recall the goofy songs, but Ray Stevens was a hell of a singer...and a stylist. One of my very favorite albums is "Misty". He turned old standards into country songs ~ Indian Love Call, Deep Purple, Mockingbird Hill, Misty, of course ~ and made them awesome.

Sure, he once had chickens clucking In The Mood, but who doesn't love a good chicken chorale?

By the by, he also had hits with Everything Is Beautiful, Mr. Businessman, and Turn Your Radio On. He was Dolly Parton's first producer when she came to Nashville. He recorded "Sunday Morning Comin' Down" before Cash did. Ray Stevens wasn't just The Streak.

You can quibble (and so can I) that there are a plethora of veteran artists who haven't been inducted. Maybe some of them never will be. It's not elementary school ~ everyone doesn't get a trophy. Some who have been suggested:

Tanya Tucker ~ yes, she will.
Lynn Anderson ~ probably never, although I love her.
Jerry Lee Lewis ~ definitely deserves to be.
Gram Parsons ~ why?
Crystal Gayle ~ I'm gonna say no on that.
David Allen Coe ~ Did he have one hit? I'd pick Johnny Paycheck fist.
Gene Watson ~ love, love him. I hope he gets in, but I doubt he will.
Johnny Rodriguez ~ same as Gene. Same chances.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ~ I love them, but their chances are slim.
The Gatlin Brothers ~ nobody mentioned them, but why not? Better than Crystal Gayle.
Hank Williams, Jr. ~ This seems to be the popular pick, and I have no earthy idea why. I'm trying hard to understand his influence on country music, other than exclaiming "I'm Bocephus!" in every single one of his songs. They're not actually good sing-alongs: "I'm Bocephus!" "No, you're not." "Well, uh, those are the lyrics."

And that's just the veteran's category.

Just wait 'til I get to the Modern Era.

Get ready to rumble!!

Until then, I choose to think that everything is beautiful:

Fifty Years Ago?

(Yea, all the posters looked like this in 1969)

1969 was fifty years ago. I would turn fourteen in May, and I was kind of a mess (but then again, when wasn't I?)

It's difficult to recreate that time, but I will do my best to remember. By '69 I had cajoled my mom into letting me move into my own room. We had 52 of them, so the loss of one wouldn't bankrupt my parents. (It was a motel; just to clarify. We didn't live in a 52-room mansion.) 

Just outside our apartment living quarters was a cavernous double garage that housed the laundry facilities and folding tables and miscellaneous detritus. Room #1 bumped up against all this rumbling uproar, so it wasn't an alluring rental. Thus, I determined that this room would be the perfect ~ absolutely pristine ~ new living quarters. It was like a little apartment, with a double bed, a 12-inch black and white TV, a big dresser with a mirror, and its own bathroom. Mom, in a lucid moment, most likely realized that sharing a bunk bed with my much younger brother and sister in a pseudo-closet wasn't the ideal arrangement for a newly-budded teenager, so she agreed. 

My big brother, who was a bona fide carpenter, carved a door into the wall between the deafening garage and the wondrous room; and thus, I could skit across the garage from our apartment and slip inside my very own private living quarters. The very first thing I did when I moved in was search out a sliding chain lock contraption among the clutter of odds and ends my dad owned and shakily twirl it into the wall with a screwdriver. 

For about a year and a half, I lived the solitary life of a cosmopolitan single ~ albeit a thirteen-year-old single who still needed to raid Mom's refrigerator for sustenance.

I still had my battery-operated phonograph because I didn't have a job at thirteen, at least not one that paid actual wages; but I had my eye on a JC Penney component stereo ~ black. Its price tag read $100.00 and I had nine dollars and change, but I knew one day I would definitely own it. The problem with a battery-operated record player was that it didn't have an auxiliary power cord and there was no such thing as alkaline batteries, so those four D's wore down much too quickly. I did have a transistor radio, though, so the air shimmered with music at all times. 

My new best friend Alice had reintroduced me to country music in 1967 and I'd embraced it wholeheartedly; yet I wasn't quite ready to give up my pop, so I had one size six-and-a-half sized foot in the country world and the other in the candy confection cosmos of KFYR-AM radio.

In January of '69 the Beatles performed a weird rooftop concert and Richard Nixon was inaugurated as the 37th president of the US, which sort of sums up the schizophrenic world of the last year of the sixties.

The Tet Offensive happened in February, and every single person alive (especially the boys deployed) were sick to death of the Viet Nam War. Meanwhile, this was the biggest hit in the country:

Down in Nashville, some guy named Cash had a network TV show that featured the Carters, the Statlers, and Carl Perkins. He also had the number one country hit of January and February. (For you trivia buffs, June Carter did not sing the "Mama sang tenor" part on the record. It was Jan Howard.)

Some guy hijacked a plane and diverted it to Cuba (yawn) in March. Hijackings were an every other week occurrence. At the Grammys, Simon and Garfunkel's Mrs. Robinson won record of the year, but not to be outdone, Glen Campbell won album of the year for By The Time I Get To Phoenix. Jose Feliciano was best new artist. Jeannie C. Riley and Johnny Cash were best female and male artists, and one of the all-time worst songs of all time, Little Green Apples, not only won best country song but best song overall (and you know how that song has stood the test of time, which proves that the Grammys are overall worthless).

Meanwhile, this was the number one pop hit:

I'm a bit queasy from watching this video. Tommy Roe filled a niche, if that niche was toothache-sweet marshmallow confections. He actually recorded a decent song a few years later and then was never heard from again (okay, I don't actually know that for a fact).

In country, nothing good happened until April. My country station just kept playing Daddy Sang Bass over and over. Album-wise, Wichita Lineman was number one for fifteen straight weeks. Now, I like Glen Campbell a lot, but back then I truly hated him. The songs would have been okay, but the hideous strings he put on all his records made me nauseous. I liked twin fiddles and a good steel guitar solo. And don't even get me started on Jimmy Webb.

A word about TV:  Even the shows I liked were awful. For those who exist in a Netflix world, let me explain how television worked in 1969. There were three networks (PBS didn't count) and that was it. If one wanted to watch TV, not only did they need to suffer through commercials, but they also had to suffer through the shows themselves. Frankly, the only good program in '69 was the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Shows I watched essentially against my will:  Gomer Pyle, Laugh-In, Green Acres, Hawaii Five-O, Get Smart (okay, Get Smart was good), something called Here Come The Brides, Mannix and Mission: Impossible (again, these two are exceptions to the rule); Petticoat Junction, Ironside, I Dream Of Jeannie, Family Affair. As bad as almost all those were, there were programs even I refused to watch, such as Adam-12 and Hogan's Heroes.

Alice and I attended a lot of movies that year, too, because what the hell else would thirteen-year-olds do for fun? We saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Paint Your Wagon, which featured a painful vocal performance by Lee Marvin. We saw True Grit with John Wayne and (hey ~ again!) Glen Campbell.

Thus sums up the first quarter of the year 1969. In retrospect, country music basically sucked and pop was hanging on by a thread. 

Personally, I slathered a lot of Clearasil on my chin and dotted clear nail polish on my snagged nylons. I wore too much liquid makeup, in the wrong shade for my skin tone. I still worshiped my big brother, but he was barely around. My little brother and sister, though cute, were "others" that I scarcely interacted with. My parents were to be avoided at all cost. Life Science was an alien proposition; US History was interesting, but I was loathe to admit it to anyone. School was in essence a day to get through.

1969 does become more interesting, however, as the pages turn. 

Stay tuned.

The Birth of the Internet

If Google hadn't told me, I would never have guessed that the internet was born thirty years ago. Who used it?? In 1989 I still thought a correctable typewriter ribbon was a wondrous invention. I still composed all my work correspondence on a Smith-Corona. I was an expert at setting margins and indents. The traveling accountants at my company carried something called a "laptop", but it was essentially a portable calculator with a savable worksheet.

When I worked at the catalog store in 1979, I drooled over something called a "word processor" and wished I had the money to buy one. But I don't know what I would have done with it (well, type, sure). I don't know if there was even such a thing called a printer, and if there was, my super-serious works would have printed out on green and white paper with holes along the edges.

Even when I began working at the health insurance company in 1990, we only had green-lit CRT's that connected to nothing but the internal guts of US Healthcare.

We didn't question how it worked; just trusted that it did. When I became a supervisor in '91, I, like everyone else, used the CRT as a makeshift typewriter to type up memos, which resulted in very odd notes inadvertently added to some poor member's claim when we accidentally hit the "save" button instead of "print".

My very first home computer was purchased from an outfit called Gateway, which, to its credit, was headquartered in South Dakota. The shipping box had cow spots and everyone who ever purchased a computer in the early nineties bought one from Gateway. It was "plug in and go". No technical skill needed whatsoever. I do recall that it arrived in multiple boxes, of which I have no recollection of the contents. It doesn't seem to me (now) that a computer should require four boxes, but maybe it was to make us neophytes feel "computer savvy" (I definitely wasn't.)

Once I assembled my newfangled contraption, I had little idea of what to do with it, except for playing a lot of solitaire. But never fear ~ America Online to the rescue. Every mail order package I ever received was accompanied by an AOL floppy disc that screamed, "Two Months Free!"

Once I chanced to slide that innocent diskette into the slot, my life was forever seized. AOL was sort of the internet but sort of not. It had "groups" for various interests that one could join and talk to like-minded people. I joined the country music group, which grew monotonous. There were about five or six people in the group and none of them (including me) ever said anything interesting. I remember a discussion about Brooks and Dunn where I opined that their second album was so much worse than the first because they'd had years to write songs for the first album, whereas "Hard Workin' Man" had been slapped together quickly to capitalize on their newfound fame. And then someone said, "That's a good point" and the conversation drifted off to nothingness.

I then looked for new distractions, but I didn't know how to find anything. Someone said there was a search engine called Alta Vista, which seemed rudimentary but never quite produced the results one was searching for. Granted, there wasn't a whole lot to find in 1995.

 

When I finally did find something, one of my kids would pick up the phone upstairs in the kitchen and my connection was lost. I wonder how many family fights ensued because one person innocently pulled the handset off the receiver to place a call. "I'm online, dammit!" Dial-up was all we knew,  and it was a tenuous connection. Even if no one cut into the line, sometimes the familiar screeech took forever to materialize.

My go-to site was something called Amazon, which sold (only) books. I thought Amazon was a revelation and I purchased every single book I even minimally thought I wanted.

Honestly, Amazon should pay me a recompense, since I was one their very first loyal customers. Jeff?

I bought a sleeve of floppy disks because I thought there might be things on this newfangled "internet" I would want to save. If I ever saved anything, it has escaped my mind.

Now "Google" is a verb. But there was no Google in 1995. Even in 1997, though my company made the internet available, I had little reason to visit it. I had an email account via Hotmail, but it was cumbersome and a new term ~ spam ~ had facilely made itself known.

Thirty years has changed life forever. I now publish books and music online with little effort. I lose patience and give up on sites that don't load immediately. I flaunt my ability to find practically anything if I search long enough (just ask me!)

I've reconnected with friends and yes, my now-husband, online.

One thing that hasn't changed, though ~ Brooks and Dunn's second album still isn't very good (except for this):

Remembering Marty Robbins

Marty Robbins has been gone so long, it's easy to forget what a power he once was. He's been gone longer than many music fans have even been alive.

It's so easy to forget ~ twenty years from now, will George Strait be only a dusty memory? If you're NBC television, a reedy-voiced synthetic cowboy has already been crowned. The dimwitted network is calling Blake Shelton (Blake Shelton!) the king of country. (You don't just get to say it and it comes true.)

But even before King George, there was Marty Robbins. It used to be that a king (or at least a prince) begat a new king. Once there was Hank Williams, who begat Marty Robbins, who begat Merle Haggard, who begat Randy Travis and George Strait, who begat Dwight Yoakam. And then sadly, it ended. But my point remains.

My history with Marty Robbins is long. The very first concert I ever attended was when my mom dragged me with her to see Marty at the Grand Forks Armory when I was but five or six years old. I can still visualize our seats ~ metal folding chairs to the far right of the stage. If I stood on tiptoe, I could occasionally catch a glimpse of the brown-suited crooner over the heads of six foot-tall grown men. I sort of knew some of Marty's songs, but I wasn't exactly a sophisticated music aficionado at my young age. This was Marty's white sport coat phase, which, as I recall, was a huge hit with the gathering.

(I only recently learned that it was the Glaser Brothers doing the doo-wahs.)

I was mortified at the end of the show, when my mom began pushing me toward the stage to garner an autograph. I refused to go. I had a hard and fast rule, even at age five ~ I wasn't about to embarrass myself, regardless of Mom. If she wanted a signature scribbled on a slip of paper, hey, go for it! Of course, she didn't. I, apparently, was her surrogate ~ maybe that's why she brought me! It's not as if she and I shared a lot of bonding experiences.

Then I forgot about Marty Robbins. A lot of other things got in my way, such as the British Invasion. I was a kid in love with rock (which was actually pop, but nevertheless). It's not that I was completely unaware of Marty Robbins' songs, but I didn't try to memorize them until I hit my country phase. This is one I eventually learned all the words to:

(Much later to be immortalized in Breaking Bad,)

Regrettably, I also missed one of the best country songs of all time:

There was something about this next song that set my nerves on end at age seven. I would like to say that feeling has since dissipated, but muscle memory is strong. 

This single from 1964 launched a certain songwriter's career. Marty heard it on a demo tape and decided to record it. I never associate this song with Marty Robbins, but his version was the first:

I remember babysitting for some kid (I loathed babysitting) and his mom had a tiny collection of LP's that I perused once the little one had finally toddled off to bed. I was playing this song when Mom finally alighted the doorstep with her latest beau in tow:

This is more my speed:

Then I sort of forgot about Marty Robbins.

Around 1975 I acquired a new puppy that I decided to name Marty. No matter that this "boy" turned out to be a girl. "Marty" stuck. Marty was my sidekick ~ she loved only me and refused to tolerate anyone else. I sort of reveled in that. This was my dog. Marty traveled with me all the way to Fort Worth, Texas and was my steadfast compadre on the high plains in between. I don't know why I named her "Marty", but the connotation was clear. 

In '76 Marty Robbins appeared again. I took a chance on his album, "All Around Cowboy" and fell in love with this:

This track was included on the album, and though I knew it was derivative, I got sucked in:

I'm guessing it was 1979 when I and my brood traveled to Duluth, MN with Mom and Dad for one of our fun family outings. Someone (most likely Mom) found out that Marty Robbins was scheduled to perform in concert at the Duluth Convention Center. I remember haggling with some guy on the phone as to whether I would have to purchase a separate seat for my toddler (I lost). We ensconced ourselves in the nosebleed section and witnessed a much more polished Marty Robbins concert (which I viewed through binoculars) than I saw in 1960. Even from a mile away this man was a miracle. Loose, good-hearted; funny; commanding. I didn't even think about getting an autograph and Mom had apparently gotten it out of her system, because she didn't think about it, either.

I'm reading a biography of Marty ~ it's not compelling. I hunger to learn more about him, but I won't find it here. Unbelievably, only one book (that I can find) has been written about the man. The author's intentions were good, and I hesitate to criticize writers; but the book consists of a series of, "then he...." and "his next album was...". It tells me little about Marty Robbins the person. And I believe that would have been a fascinating story.

Marty died in 1982. 

Like radio stations were wont to do, they began playing a posthumous track shortly thereafter. Even now, hearing it makes me tear up. Yep, it was appropriate:

 For some of us fans, at least, some memories just won't die.

Red River's Latest Video

Have you heard? Red River's latest digital CD is for sale! Yes! Just scroll on over to the right-hand side of the screen to see this ^ cover and click on it to buy! Plus, if you join Red River's mailing list, you get free goodies! You won't be sorry! Red River has too many great songs to include on "Life Is A Dream", but you can get some of those songs for free. And as if that wasn't enough, I'll send you a missive every now and then that's even more intriguing than my blog...really.

The first track on "Life Is A Dream" is a personal favorite of mine. I've been messing around, trying to come up with a video for "As Best I Can", and the good news is, I finally finished it tonight.

Thanks, Mrs. Procrastinator!