Learning Music

(some guys)

I didn't begin to put it all together until I was around age nine. At nine I saw Manfred Mann and most importantly, Roy Orbison, on TV for the first time. "Oh, Pretty Woman" was the absolute, bar-none best song I'd ever heard in my whole life (to date).

And this song was profound (okay, not really), but I really, really liked it:

But I also lived in an apartment attached to a country-western bar, so I was confused. Buck Owens and Bobby Bare poured out of my uncle's juke box, while my little plastic table-side radio blasted out The Dave Clark Five and the Animals. I was warbling, "There goes my baby with someone new" as part of my little cousin trio. I had the Beatles, of course, tucked in my pocket. The Beatles were still my secret in 1964.

1964 was a Pop Rocks explosion of music. Once I moved back home to the farm, I had Shindig on ABC TV, where I saw the Righteous Brothers and Gerry and the Pacemakers and the Beach Boys. And I had my big brother -- the supreme arbiter of musical taste.

It wasn't until 1965, though, that it all became clear to me. In addition to my brother, I had a best friend who I discovered music with. I can't emphasize enough how important it is to discover music with somebody who shares your sensibilities. My brother was an expert, but my friend Cathy heard the same songs at the exact same time I did, and we reveled in our shared awe.

Music was joyous in 1965. Maybe it was partly me, but I really think the music was buoyant. It was a musical renaissance. Sort of like today's sensibilities, the music before '65 had been all message-driven. It wanted us to think (think!) about things. I blame Bob Dylan. I was too young to think! Think about what? I didn't even know what the heck the folkies were complaining about. But they sure were bitchy. That wasn't music to me. Music was supposed to be fun. That's why they were called "songs"; not "dissertations". Even today, I hate, hate when people try to preach to me. "The answer is blowin' in the wind". Okay, well, blow away, dammit! Leave me the F alone!

Even the sad, morose, songs in 1965 at least had a catchy beat.

And there were the songs that made no sense, and that was the point, A guy from Dallas, Texas, named Domingo Samudio could dress as an Arab sheik and do something like this:

 

I frankly thought "Sloopy" was an unattractive name for a girl. It sounded like "Sloppy", or like someone who dribbled a lot.

I wonder whatever happened to the McCoys. (I used to do The Jerk, too. Didn't everybody?)

I never could figure out why Sonny Bono dressed like Fred Flintstone. It was a fashion choice, yes, but not necessarily a wise one. I half-expected him to scuttle away in a car that was powered by his fat bare toes. Nevertheless, who hasn't attempted this song on karaoke night?

I never could quite get into the Rolling Stones. That still holds true today. I have honestly tried -- honestly. I want to like them. My husband reveres them. They just don't do it for me. 

My recollection of this song is me standing outside in my circular driveway, holding my tiny transistor to my ear, and hearing a guy talking about someone smoking cigarettes, which I could relate to, because my dad smoked cigarettes. But other than that, ehh.

Shindig loved the Righteous Brothers. I loved the Righteous Brothers. This track was produced by an insane killer, which unfortunately colors my memories of the song, but geez, it's Bill Medley:

The Beach Boys were gods. Still are. I didn't know which one was Brian, or which one was Carl or Dennis, and it didn't matter. What mattered were those overly-tight white pants (just kidding! But not a wise fashion choice.) This track is notable due to the fact that they finally let Al Jardine sing lead. Of course, I didn't know that then. To me, the Beach Boys were the Beach Boys. I was not obsessed with who sang what. I still liked Little Deuce Coupe the best, although that was like a foreign language to me. I thought they were singing, "little do scoop". Which has nothing to do with this song:

Back to my brother:  He liked this song. I'd never heard the term "boondocks" before (or frankly, since). I remember pondering that word. I finally settled on "boondocks" equals "woods". I think that's wrong. But at ten, I pictured Billy Joe Royal singing about his life living inside a grove of trees. You be the judge:

My brother also had this single. He informed me that Gary Lewis was Jerry Lewis's son, like that was supposed to be a big selling point. I thought Jerry Lewis was a whiny overgrown child who was definitely not funny. There was an actual child in my household who was three years old and he was funnier than Jerry Lewis. I didn't actually mind Gary Lewis, but his entire recording was a fake, recorded by the Wrecking Crew, with even someone in the studio "helping" Gary with his vocals. 

Of course, I didn't know that in 1965. I didn't even know, or think about, how records were made. I thought they appeared by magic. I had absolutely no conception of someone standing behind a mic in a studio. In my ten-year-old mind, a bunch of guys got together and sang. That was the entire process. It was like Elvis breaking into song on the beach -- no instruments; yet I heard them. No microphone -- his voice carried across the rolling waves with nothing but a trio of dancing "friends" behind him in the sand. It's sort of how food appears on one's plate. Somebody disappears behind a door and comes out with a platter. I love magic.

People's memories are selective. Sure, when we think about '65, we know about the Beach Boys and Bob Dylan and Blah-Blah and the Blah-Blahs. But do we remember the Beau Brummels?  Well, we should, because they were on the radio all the time. You couldn't click on your transistor or flip on the car radio without hearing this song:

Speaking of Dylan, here's the deal:  I didn't know who this guy was in '65. I liked Rainy Day Woman #12 and 35, because I found it weird, and weird was good at ten years old. My brother told me the guy's real name was Robert Zimmerman and that he was from Hibbing, Minnesota. Okay. Well, good. My brother bestowed this knowledge upon me like it was very important. That's why I remember it to this day. I guess you had to be nineteen to "get" Bob Dylan; not ten. 

I still think he is a bad singer -- I mean, come on. Nevertheless, the man can write. This became clear to me when I was watching a documentary about Duluth, Minnesota, and the narrator recited a line about the city that I thought, "Wow; great line!" and then she said, "This was written by Bob Dylan." That's when I finally got it. 

This song is preternaturally long. The Beatles' tracks were 2:30, tops. It's not as long as "American Pie", which is like comparing "Achy Breaky Heart" to "Amarillo By Morning". Apples and putrefied oranges. But it's still long. Again, I did not understand at age ten that DJ's needed bathroom breaks. I thought they just sat there and listened to the records like I did. And every once in a while, they shouted out the station's call letters and the current temperature. But disc jockeys, just like real people, had to heed nature's call, so they really (really) liked this song:

I was fascinated by Roy Head when I saw him on Shindig. This was the most rubbery performer I'd ever seen! I remember worrying that his tight pants would split, but that could be just a false memory. Still, this guy was limber!

My boys were everywhere in '65. There was the Saturday morning cartoon, which was awful, but they played the songs, so, of course, I watched it. There were Beatles figurines. My mom bought me Ringo (thanks, Mom).

(notice that they all look basically the same)

 Of course, if I still had that figurine today, I would be a multi-millionaire! (Okay, maybe not.)

My boys had three records in the Billboard 100 in 1965. Here's one that doesn't get played a lot:

Another artist who's mostly forgotten, but shouldn't be, is Johnny Rivers. "Live At The Whisky A Go Go" was monumental. Never mind that they apparently didn't know how to spell "whiskey". In the early two thousands, I had the opportunity to see Johnny Rivers live, and he was still phenomenal. And everything that Jimmy Webb wrote in his awful book about Johnny means absolutely nothing to me. Mister Balloon Man.

Johnny hit the charts in 1965 with this:

Let me tell you about joyous music.

The first time I heard The Lovin' Spoonful was when "Daydream" wafted out of my transistor's speaker. What a day for a daydream. My best friend, Cathy, and I skipped along the streets of downtown Grand Forks with our radios pasted to our ears, warbling "I'm lost in a daydream, dreamin' 'bout my bundle of joy".

Then there was Zal Yankovsky. 

Zal knew that music was joyous. I don't even have to point him out to you in this video -- you'll know him. That's how music is to me.

1965 is when I learned music.

If You're Going To San Francisco

There are a lot of fables in popular culture about the sixties. I was there.

The Summer of Love is represented in TV montages by young girls with garlands of daisies in their hair dancing about (not really dancing, but rather, floating on a marijuana cloud). Apparently teens in the late sixties were endeavoring to blot out the cruel world of reality. Frankly, I don't remember reality being all that awful. That's not true, of course. I was twelve in 1967 and life for me was a minefield of evading my mom's bitching and cursing and my dad's tipsy staggering across the parking lot of our motel. Luckily for me on that front, I rarely saw my dad.

Too, if one watched the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite, things were definitely not fine. Young boys were getting killed in Viet Nam for no Godly reason. Truth was, though, Viet Nam was so far away, and we were safe and sound beside the pool, slathering Coppertone on our legs; white-framed sunglasses shading our eyes -- it was easy to get hypnotized by the summer sun and by Jim Morrison wanting to light our fire.

Nineteen sixty-seven was the summer of denial.

Despite, or maybe because of, my family issues, I let the July sun warm me; bake me; anesthetize me. The Rascals wafting from my transistor's speaker turned everything all right. "Groovin" helped me forget.

Much like today, I think the more "politically active" teens protested simply for something to do. It's not as if they were political science experts -- I learned more by just keeping my head down and studying actual civics than they did from holding "be-ins".  And geographically, things were just different. In the semi-rural Midwest, we watched these strange beings frolicking on our TV screens and saw them as otherworldly. They were apparently "Communists" -- today known as "Socialists", or "Idiots". Yes, life would be sublime if we could all just gather together on our communes and barter our organically-grown lettuce for a used radio. Sure, everything is groovy until human nature kicks in, as it inevitably does; and bad things like "jealousy", "greed", and "betrayal" rear their ugly heads. Changing the human essence is a losing battle.

Nevertheless, all we really needed to make this world a better place was:

Beatles - All You Need Is Love from SimDo on Vimeo.

"Love" was a very important word in 1967 (unlike now). Everything, every life's goal, was to obtain "love". The Jefferson Airplane sang about love, but it sounded angry, sort of like the "love" I experienced in my family; which was not a desirable state:

"Love" actually sucked, and it was phony. Perhaps that's the issue I have with 1967 -- its artifice. Frankly, I could have just as well worn flowers in my hair and have been equally happy:

And, naturally, it was the Age of Aquarius, which is another way of saying I'm a gullible imbecile who reads my horoscope every day in the newspaper and believes it. Of course, I have to barter away my hemp-woven moccasins for a newspaper, but still, it's well worth it. The Fifth Dimension, in retrospect, was just trying to make a living in show business, and they hitched their wagon to little Jimmy Webb, who, while on an acid trip, wrote a song about balloons:

Truth be told, there were a lot of crappy songs that were hits in 1967. By the same token, there were a bunch of good tracks, the ones we rubes really liked. But that's for another day, another post. Listening to these "hits", though, kind of makes me feel icky -- takes me back to a time and a place I don't care to remember. That's why I prefer the "nice" songs. 

Stay tuned...

1966

My husband seems to think that 1966 was the nadir of music, but my feeling is that the "best" music is tucked inside the recesses of one's brain. I remember 1964 and 1965 more than 1966. That may be because sixty-six was a rather traumatic year for me, or maybe because I am right.

Thus, I've decided to find out.

Let's stipulate that there are awesome songs and songs that reek in any given year. I'm not going to try to tip the balance in one direction or the other. I'm relying on Billboard to tell me what people were listening to in nineteen sixty-six, because, shoot, I was eleven years old! How good do you think my memory is?

Disclaimer:  We all romanticize the past. Maybe we do that because the present rather sucks. But it's true we remember the good and conveniently forget the awful. Billboard is here to set me straight. Billboard doesn't lie.

In perusing Billboard's chart of the Year-End Hot 100 from 1966, I find that, yes, there were some excellent songs -- songs that jog my memory (in a good way) and songs that I, sadly, didn't glom onto until a few years later. Not sure why that is. Musical tastes mature? I'm always partial to the songs that bring me back to a time and a place. This one does:

John Sebastian is more than "Welcome Back Kotter". And then there's Zal Yanovsky. I don't think any musician in any band has been as joyful as Zal was.

I saw Johnny Rivers in concert a few years ago, in an intimate setting. Trust me, he is superb. Still. Even in 1966 I was enamored of this artist. The "Live At The Whisky A Go Go" album is classic (even if they didn't know how to spell "whiskey"). It's rare that a live album latches on to one's memory, but this one most definitely did.

As I recap 1966, I'm struck by the number of soon-to-be legends who appeared around that time. I'm told that this guy still packs them in -- at age 75! Yea, that's right. All you hip-hoppers out there and you musically-deficient pop artists, take heed. And I knew him when (well, I actually didn't know him personally, but his music...)

Jann Wenner is a jerk. Just induct Neil into the hall of fame already. What is it, some kind of personal vendetta? Moron.

I was in love with this song in 1966. I mean, in loooove. I still rather love it. Don't ask me to explain it. There's just something...

No, I didn't forget those four guys. Yea, they were a thing in 1966. A THING. THE thing. I was there; I know. Oh, and yes, I had this single. I couldn't afford albums - hello? A single in itself cost a buck. I was a kid! I didn't have a job! On the plus side, at least with the Beatles, one got two great songs for the price of one (Day Tripper was the B side...or was it the A side...doesn't matter now.)

Here we see the dichotomy -- earnest Paul; smart-ass John. I like John:

I also had this next single. Remember Donovan? No? Well, here's the deal...Donovan was on some potent stuff, obviously. He helped to usher in the Summer of Love. The Summer of Love was a time when anybody could record whatever the F they wanted and fellow flower brains would swoon, "That's heavy, man!" In actuality, none of it made any sense. I still liked the song, though.

I loved the Beach Boys. I never loved them more than when they released "California Girls". But that was 1965. By 1966, they were already rehashing old songs (before Brian waddled downstairs in his terrycloth robe and commenced to creating Pet Sounds). This hit from '66 proves that you only need about five words to make a hit song, as long as those words are sung with nice harmonies:

Remember when instrumentals could become hits? You would have needed to be alive and cognizant in the nineteen seventies to remember that. But trust me, in the sixties it wasn't an alien concept...at all.

The Sufaris only had one hit, but that hit is played in every tavern in every town on every Saturday night. And people get up and dance to it...The Frug or The Jerk or whatever variation of "dancing" they choose. I personally am a mean Jerk dancer.

Sorry for the Frankie and Annette intro, but it was the best video I could find:

Obviously, this only scratches the surface of 1966; like a phonograph needle scratching the hell out of my precious 45's.

There is more to come. This was mostly the best. Let's dig in the dirt to uncover the worst.

Country Rock

Country rock is a strange subset of rock music.  It seems that the twain of country and rock should never meet; but at one time, they did.

I thought about that when I heard the song, Amie, on my oldies station today.  There is nothing about that song that even flirts fleetingly with rock music; and yet it was a hit on the rock charts.  

This performance, unfortunately, does not feature the long-since moved-on Vince Gill.

There are artists who immediately spring to mind when talking about country rock music.  I don't want to talk about those artists.

How about the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, from 1979?  An American Dream, a performance which eerily includes the voice, but not the actual physical presence of Linda Ronstadt.

Speaking of Linda Ronstadt, who knew, when she was with the Stone Poneys, that she had such a great voice?   Different Drum didn't necessarily show off Linda's vocal abilities.  Did you know that Mike Nesmith of the Monkees wrote Different Drum?  I didn't.  

Here, however, she takes a great Roy Orbison song and makes it her own; and makes it a "rock" hit:

The Beatles even dabbled in a bit of country rock, as evidenced by this song:

John Fogerty has never made any bones about his love of country, or rockabilly, music.  Creedence Clearwater Revival, while unquestionably recording songs that clearly fit within the rock and roll genre, also had a bunch of songs that skirted the line between rock and country.  Like this:

John Sebastian and his Lovin' Spoonful had a great example of country rock music, with their recording of "Darlin' Be Home Soon".  Unfortunately, the only video available for that song has big red letters flashing over it, yelling, "YOUR ARREST RECORD ONLINE!".  Bastards.  If you want to see the video, though, you can find it here.

"Daydream" is not the best example of John's country rock leanings, but it still fits.

Here are a BUNCH OF PEOPLE doing Bob Dylan's "My Back Pages", and as an added bonus, "Knockin' on Heaven's Door".  Take that, Gram Parsons.

Speaking of five old country rockers, how about these guys:

Many, many artists contributed to the birth of the country rock genre.  Eventually, though, everything became compartmentalized; and country rock was played only on country stations.  That's where we had to go to hear Dwight and Rosanne.

Country music purists once thought that the Eagles were horning in on country music ~ interlopers, they were.  The joke was on us snobs, though, in the end.  Turns out the Eagles were more country than most artists who audaciously dared to call themselves "country".

The Eagles Greatest Hits, Volume 1 was a cornucopia of country rock songs.  I refused to buy that albums for years; thumbing my nose at these pretenders; these charlatans.  I don't remember what exactly I was listening to then, but the 1970's was really a lost decade for country music.  Had I just broken down and bought that blue cow's skull album, I would have regained all the faith in country music that I'd lost.

Better late than never, I say.

Here are the Eagles performing at the 2007 CMA Awards:

Country rock straddled the border between a teen girl's infatuation with rock and roll and her budding love affair with country music.  Country music could really be a bit too corny sometimes.  Added to that was the shame of being a country girl in a rock and roll town.  With country rock, I could relax and just let the music flow.

 

 

More Hits From the Summer of Lo-oo-ve!

Hey, kids! (Well, I guess you're not really kids anymore, are you?)

If you have any cognitive memory of the hits of 1967, sorry, but you are old. I hate to break it to you (and to myself), but it's unfortunately true.

If you remember two posts ago, I began enumerating the top hits of that seminal year in music. And I got through number fifteen.

Well, FYI, there were more hits than just fifteen! That is why I'm here to discuss.....

So, let's continue on, shall we?

Number sixteen. The Beatles said, all you need is love. Well, the Beatles were lying. They absolutely abhorred each other by 1967. Even Ringo, and that's saying a lot.

Nevertheless, they apparently loved somebody; just not each other.



#17 is a sparkly song, and I don't mean that in a good way. I just watched an episode of Modern Family, in which Lily was forced to wear a light-up dress as a flower girl in a wedding, and I thought, how preposterous. Apparently not. Shield your eyes as you watch the Supremes:



What do you know? Number eighteen is also from the Supremes. This time in pale yellow nauseating chiffon. I remember this song, but I think it was because there was some kind of commercial tie-in; I could be wrong. I wanna say some car company appropriated this song, but you know, that was a long time ago, but heavens, there must be some reason I remember it. It can't be for its artistic merit.



Seriously? This next song was only number nineteen? And "The Happening" beat it out? Hmmm, let's see, which song do we remember? Well, I guess if I'm in the mood to shop for a new Chevy, and I have a time machine, maybe "The Happening" springs to mind.

Otherwise, I'll just go with Penny Lane.



Never mind that a pretty nurse is selling puppies from a tray. And how does she keep the puppies from jumping off that tray? It's a mystery. Just like the "four of fish and finger pie", which sounds scrumptious!

Remember the Royal Guardsmen? Of course not! I hate to even bring this up, since 1967 was kind of my era, but yes, we had putrid songs back then that became big hits, and here's one of them!

Again, like I sometimes do, I wonder if any of the Guardsmen went on to bigger and better things. I could do a Google search, but I'm thinking that would be rather pointless.

So, okay, here you go:



I really like Gladys Knight, but I don't get why she didn't just pick her own new songs, rather than trying to outdo Marvin Gaye (which no one could), but this was number twenty-one in 1967, and just for the record, I still like Marvin's version a LOT better:



Okay, here's a revelation: I really only knew this song because of John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd. I don't know how or why I missed it; I mean I had "some" recollection of it, but it was never seared into my brain.

But watching this performance by Sam & Dave, I'm thinking, wow, this is WAY cooler than the Blues Brothers.



I always had this nagging suspicion that the Mamas & The Papas turned off Michelle's microphone before every performance. But I guess I was wrong.

I will say, though, that they probably should have. But, of course, she wasn't in the group because of her singing abilities. At least she had her looks to fall back on, since the group was totally dominated by two of the best pop singers ever ~ Cass Elliot and Denny Doherty. As this song will attest:



I completely forgot about this next song. And, (naturally)I also forgot about a group called "Music Explosion". That name is rather presumptuous, isn't it? I mean, I don't think the music is actually "exploding" here. It kind of just moves on in its own meandering way.

Someone commented on this video that they didn't know that Kevin Bacon was in the band. Kudos! You (YouTube poster) win an honored place in the Shelly/Lissa trademarked game called, "The Face Is Familiar".



Number twenty-five is a song that holds fond memories for me. Sure, it was twenty-five, which doesn't seem like a high number, but I liked the Cowsills, especially because my older brother did a mean imitation of the many hand gestures the group used in performing this song.

Sure, most people don't remember the Cowsills. If they remember them at all, it's because of the weird makeup of the band. MOM was part of it! I think the deal was, the kids just wanted to form a band, and Mom said, oh, no you don't! I've heard about that show biz culture! None of MY kids will fall into that den of iniquity.

So, of course, the kids, industrious as kids can be, said, "Hey Mom! Why don't you be in the band with us?" And Mom, unable to resist the many temptations of the celebrity life, said, "Oh, me?? Why, I never.....Okay!"

And Dad, of course, never got another home-cooked meal for the rest of his life. And Shirley Jones sent a nice thank-you letter to Mama Cowsill, for the idea for a new TV sitcom titled, "The Partridge Family". So, full circle, as they say.



So, there we go. We've reached number twenty-five for the year 1967.

And believe it or not, there are many big hits to come!

And many that you will remember even more than the ones featured here.

Yes, 1967 was kind of a seminal year in rock (pop) music.

So, stay tuned for Part 3 of the "Summer of Love" revisited.