Mundane '62

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 Lawrence Welk was woefully out of date, but my dad liked him.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. 

 

Music was always there.

Happy Bir....

(To my friend, "Your Name Here")

My birthday isn't until tomorrow, but I'm choosing to celebrate it tonight. 

When I was a kid, I considered the year 2000 and thought, wow, I'll be forty-five! Essentially on my death bed! The good news is, it's 2018 and I'm still kickin'. And I know now that forty-five is nothing. When I was forty-five, gravity was still averted. You know that picture you run across from 1945 in the ragged family photo album and you think, really? That's my mom? Turns out that, yes, we all were young and dewy-skinned once. I don't look like myself anymore, but I'm so used to my countenance in the morning mirror that I don't give it a second thought. It's only when I (accidentally) see a photograph of myself that I realize some grievous calamity has apparently occurred.

I've given up on regaining my lost figure. It just doesn't work anymore. I'm not going to become one of those delusional fitness fanatics. I've never exercised more than ten days in my life and I'm not about to start now. Plus, I deserve to eat.

The thing about turning 63 is that I spend more time looking back than forward. I mostly choose to remember the good things. It's not that I've forgotten the bad. I can conjure up those memories in a snap if I choose to, but when I do, I tend to view them philosophically, like a neutral bystander. Humans do the best they can do with what they have. I don't hold it against my parents for what they did. They didn't damage me on purpose. 

Today I received some birthday wishes from my co-workers. My best work friend Barb brought me a single-serve DQ cake. It was awesome. The cake had a cobalt-blue plastic butterfly ring atop it and I slipped it on my finger and wore it throughout the day. Everyone I encountered chose to ignore the humongous butterfly encircling my finger; sure (no doubt) that I'd made an unfortunate fashion choice. That made me giggle. A boy (really) that I trained four years ago asked me about my birthday plans and we got to talking about retirement. I told him that 2020 is the year. He said, "It won't be any fun here without you." I didn't realize I was still "fun". I used to be fun back in 1997, when I commanded a department at Aetna (US Healthcare), but I essentially just feel tired now and don't have the energy to be engaging. How lame must everyone else be, that I am regarded as the "fun" one?

I blame (or credit) Sirius Radio with my current state of look-back. Every single song I click on evokes memories. I hover between classic country and sixties and seventies rock; and sometimes fifties rockabilly. Some of the songs make me cry, for reasons only known to me. My best friend died in 2000 (when she was only forty-five). The songs we shared together are bittersweet. I almost feel embarrassed to still love those songs, because Alice is gone and she and I can't share them. 

When I hear John Lennon's voice, my heart breaks a little. John was my education in "real" music, beginning when I was nine years old or so. 

I don't "sum up" when it comes to music. Songs are quicksilver. Songs are not dissectable, like some scientific experiment. Anyone who slices and dices music is not a music lover. I love a song by the Honeycombs and one by Tommy James, and one by Steve Wariner and "God Bless The USA" by Lee Greenwood just because. I like Boston and Gene Pitney and Bobby Bare and Dobie Gray. Nobody needs to know why. 

Happy Birthday to me.

A Year Lost To Time -- 1962

(all cars looked like this)

My sisters could tell you more about 1962 than I am able to. It's not that I wasn't around -- I was -- I was seven, which is an age when one is barely conscious of the world around them. I was confused, trying to feel my way in the vast universe that primarily consisted of my school bus, home, and Valley Elementary School. 

In second grade my school caught on fire. That was something different. It was mid-winter, and all of us kids were stuffed into waiting buses, and then the teachers exited the school carrying boxes of snow boots and pressed them into our confused hands. I went home with one boot that fit and another red rubber boot that was two sizes too big. I don't recall being traumatized. Little kids tend to accept whatever happens to pop up. I had to go to a different school while mine was being rehabilitated. There were only three elementary schools in my town -- Riverside, Valley, and Crestwood. My class got bused to Crestwood, where my teacher commenced to instruct us in the hallway. Again, I was not unnerved by having to squat on the hard linoleum floor for six hours a day as the regular Crestwood kids stomped past on their way to the lunch room and stared at us. 

This went on for approximately six-to-twelve weeks, and then we returned to Valley, which looked brand-spankin'-fine, like a blazing inferno had never engulfed the furnace room. I tend to think everyone over-reacted. I had a boyfriend, who I liked but didn't like, Jon Bush, and I got mixed up the day we moved back to Valley, and pushed him away. I thought my teacher had only wanted me to correct one classmate's paper, but she had meant for me to correct everybody's. She got mad when she saw me give Jon a shove and she reprimanded me sternly. Last time in my life I ever shoved anyone. 

The big event in my seven-year-old life was Valentine's Day. We crafted our Valentine receptacles out of shoe boxes; decorated them with bric-a-brac from Mom's sewing box and festooned them with red Crayola hearts. Everybody had to give everybody a valentine. There was no quibbling. Mom chose the valentine pack based upon the number of students in my class. It was a difficult decision, however, determining which valentine to bestow upon whom. If a girl was a good friend, I gave her the prettiest sparkly heart. For Jon, I didn't really want to lead him on, but I did need to distinguish him from the other boys in my class. The sentiments printed on the cards contained subtle differences. For example, "You've Roped My Heart Podner" was far more meaningful than "Hi Cookie!" Choosing the appropriate valentine for each person in my class was a very serious undertaking. In retrospect, perhaps I placed too much significance on the process.

On Valentine's Day, when I got home with my shoe box stuffed full of hand-printed hearts, I perched on the top of the stairs and sorted and categorized my cards and created little songs to accompany them as I danced them about. I was a bit too invested in Valentine's Day.

That, in a nutshell, is my memory of 1962.

Music was haphazard. Granted, music was filtered through my sisters' tastes. My oldest sister was kind of flighty -- one could never pin her down as far as what she truly liked. My second oldest sister was damn moody. I didn't dare ask her what music she preferred, or anything, really; because she might just fly off the handle. I was her mangy mutt -- someone she was forced to tolerate, but really a giant pain in the ass.

I'm guessing my sisters didn't really like this song, but it was a giant hit. This is because radio in 1962 wasn't radio as we know it today (if anyone actually listens to radio today). Singles weren't slotted into crisp categories. There wasn't rock ('n roll) and country (western) and easy listening. The DJ played them all! And mixed them up! Right after Jay and the Americans came Frank Sinatra! Yes, disc jockeys didn't just stab a button and up came a whole pre-fab playlist. DJ's actually played real records and they picked them out themselves. They also gauged local hits by how many call-in requests they received -- yes. Ahh, so antiquated.

Anyway, this single, I'm guessing, was for the "old folks", because we all listened to the same radio station (in my case, KRAD), be we seven or seventy-seven.

Much like this:

Yes, there was a common thread running through the old folks' songs. Lots of violins and a rhythm that was sort of a "slow gait". Connie Francis was a mega-star in 1962. I remember playing at my cousin's house when one of those "be the first caller to guess this singer" blurbs came on the radio. My aunt hollered to my cousin, "Connie Francis!" and my cousin dialed the radio station's number. "Is it Connie Francis?" she asked. "You're our winner!" My cousin won the black MGM single and all she had to do was have her mom drive her to the station to pick it up. I played that game, too, except all the songs I knew were records I already owned, and I did my own guessing without my mom's help. I often ended up with double copies of the same '45, but it was the notoriety that counted. 

To be frank, there were only two renowned female singers in '62 -- Connie Francis and Brenda Lee -- so there was a fifty-fifty chance my cousin aunt would get it right. Sadly, I can find no live performance videos of this song (Connie is shy):

You can see why I had such a laissez-faire attitude toward music. Well, toward everything, really, but that's kind of a seven-year-old thing.

There were a few more rockin' hits in 1962; songs that my sisters much preferred. Face it, it was a new world. JFK was president and he was young. Ike probably liked Nat King Cole, but it was time to rocket into the second half of the twentieth century. Sputnik was being launched into space, whatever Sputnik was, and John Glenn had climbed inside a "capsule" and putted across the sky.

Yep, this was more like it:

Dang it, I loved this song in '62. I danced and sang in front of the upstairs bedroom mirror to it. It had a nonsense intro and harmony and a good beat (you could dance to it). What's not to love for a little kid?

In 1962 "twisting" was of supreme importance. My sisters did a masterful rendition of the dance in our kitchen one winter evening, to the family's delight and consternation. I've featured Chubby Checker's version here too many times, so here is a variation:

The "peppermint" twist was what all the cool cats did, especially in New York. You know, people like Truman Capote and Lee Radziwell. And their martinis.

The twist was by far not the only dance craze of the time. No. There was any stupid dance that any dunce could do, even if just by accident. The twist was really good exercise, but if one was tired, they could always do the mashed potato, which essentially involved simply contorting one's feet in and out. The remainder of the body could rest. Hey, I'm not a snob when it comes to dances. My generation had the jerk, which was ordinary arm exertion, as opposed to foot movement, but the result was the same. One could be their regular lazy self and still "dance".

Believe it or not, this single hit number five on the charts. You may think this is a tired old saw; the song that pops up every time a movie scene demands it, but there was a time when this was new. Of course, at seven I didn't know what a "stripper" was. My big brother knew. You gotta admit, it had a good beat.

Aside from the kitsch, music was beginning to show signs of what was to come. 

There was this new group that not many people paid attention to. They wore matching plaid shirts. So hokey. I don't know whatever happened to them. Maybe I should do a Google search.

I'm including this simply because it's good:

Gene Pitney was a rock star in the days before there was such a thing as rock stars. I suspect he probably really wanted to be on Broadway, but nevertheless. This guy could sing. And he had the look -- the early sixties Anthony Perkins look.

Yea, goofball was around. Sorry, I mean Elvis Presley. My sisters liked him a lot. I almost wish I liked him, but I'm not sure why. In '62 I frankly thought Ricky Nelson was better. Aside from being a caricature, it struck me that Elvis tried too hard.

My sisters had this album. I wonder if they remember. It seems, in my recollection, that my two sisters shared singles and albums. I'm averse to that. I think music should be the possession of one person. The reason I like this song is because it foreshadowed the direction my life would go, musically. It's not rock (or rock 'n roll). It's country. They called it rock 'n roll in 1962. It wasn't:

To sum up, at age seven I was confused, befuddled. I had the beginning of an inkling of what music was -- good music and bad music. Music wasn't the sum of my existence then. 

It soon would be.

Pioneers Of Rock - The Early '60's

I don't think it's right to just stop with the late '50's, do you? Not when there was so much good music yet to come. I already did a whole series on the British Invasion bands, but there was actually a whole gaggle of good artists from the good old USA!

The early-to-mid '60's were good years for rock 'n roll music. There were a lot of different styles, from doo-wop to the precursors of rock & roll (singers such as Connie Francis), to the California surf sound of the Beach Boys, to the wall of sound stuff by that unsurpassed weirdo named Phil Spector, to the Jersey sound of The Four Seasons, and on to the pop stylings of producer Quincy Jones, then on to the Motown Sound, and everything in between.

One thing you can say about that era ~~ everything didn't sound the same.

So, I'm just going to throw some videos in here, with little thought to rhyme or reason, and see what you think.

CHUBBY CHECKER - THE TWIST



This song was from 1960. Interestingly, the song also hit the Top Ten again in 1962. It makes one wonder if there was a dearth of songs back then, so they had to recycle the old ones. I don't know. Anyway, this appears to be from an appearance on American Bandstand (note the lip-syncing). Plus, there is NO WAY he could dance and not lose his breath if he was actually singing. I mean, really. This song marked a new phase in dance music. Prior to The Twist, everyone was just fox-trotting around and jitter-bugging. With the advent of The Twist, people could dance all by themselves! I think we can credit this song with creating the ME generation. Who needs a dance partner? Again, also, as in Fats Domino's case, why do they call him "Chubby"? He doesn't look very chubby. I'd call him "Average Checker".

JOEY DEE & THE STARLITERS - THE PEPPERMINT TWIST

Well, what hath Chubby Checker wrought? What started as simply "The Twist" in 1960 morphed into the Peppermint Twist in 1962. I'm no historian, but I'm thinking Joey Dee was a real hipster dude who was the toast of discotheques all the way from Brooklyn to the Bronx. This version, The Peppermint Twist, is the New York take on the now classic dance number. I am loathe to point this out, but Joey is actually doing a combination of The Twist/The Mashed Potato, so he is by no means pure in Twist parlance.




DEE DEE SHARP - MASHED POTATO TIME

I don't want to be nitpicky here, but some of the dancers were doing The Jerk, NOT the Mashed Potato. I guess they thought no one would notice. Although, David St. Hubbins WAS doing the Mashed Potato, so good work, St. Hubbins! I wonder whatever happened to Dee Dee. I wonder if she's still wearing that giant brooch in her "hair" (wig). I don't know how exactly I ended up being focused on dance crazes, but I promise it will end soon.


THE CHIFFONS - HE'S SO FINE

Okay, I couldn't actually find a performance of "He's So Fine" by The Chiffons, so I substituted this one. It's the same song ~~ just ask the US Copyright Office. Only the words were changed. This is nothin' against George Harrison, but good god, man, didn't this melody ring a bell when you were writing it? Just add in some "do lang, do lang's" and you got it. Still a great melody, though. A classic, if you will. I think we should ALL write lyrics to this melody. Pay it forward, as they say.

THE SHIRELLES - WILL YOU LOVE ME TOMORROW

Unfortunately, in addition to this great performance, we are subjected to pop references from 1961. Frankly, the ones that resonate with me are Rocky & Bullwinkle and Mister Ed. Sorry, JFK. Sorry, President Reagan. I guess Bullwinkle and Mister Ed hold a higher place of honor in the history of the USA. I don't make the news; I just report it.

FRANKIE VALLI & THE FOUR SEASONS - BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY

1962; I'm thinkin' the Ed Sullivan Show. You think? You know, falsetto is kind of a lost art. One rarely sees that anymore. A pity. Cuz, if you think about it, it could get you ON BROADWAY! And you'd have a hit show, and you could just kick back and collect residuals. Not bad for a little falsetto. Not bad at all.

DION & THE BELMONTS - RUBY BABY

Bad video; great song. I still love this one, from 1962. Dion and his Belmonts did a great job incorporating doo-wop with rock & roll. This is but one example. Dion, of course, went on to a solo career, singing about Abraham, Martin, & John. This was in the late '60's, when people actually cared about that stuff. Oh, the times, they have a'changed.

GENE PITNEY - TOWN WITHOUT PITY

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS. It's from 1961. The net tells me that Gene himself wrote this song. If so, KUDOS, Gene! I don't know if I trust that info, though. It sure sounds like a Burt Bacharach song to me, but I could be mistaken. A little known fact: Gene was the first pop singer to perform at the Oscars. I really kinda miss Gene Pitney. I really liked him. Not to ruin the moment, but in this video, he really reminds me of Anthony Perkins, of "Psycho" fame.

CONNIE FRANCIS - EVERYBODY'S SOMEBODY'S FOOL

For those who don't know, Connie Francis was HUGE in the late '50's/early '60's. And she's a good singer who deserved her fame. I'll always remember Connie especially from that classic tearjerker, "Where The Boys Are". Have you ever seen this movie? It's a camp classic. First of all, you can't beat a cast that includes George Hamilton, Dolores Hart, Jim Hutton, Paula Prentiss, Frank Gorshin (what?), Yvette Mimieux, and, of course, Connie herself. It's about these "kids" (who look approximately 35 to 40 years old) who go to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. Well, all kinds of bad things happen: love is found, love is lost, love is found again, George Hamilton gets a tan. I understand that in real life, Dolores Hart went on to become a nun, to atone for actually getting paid for starring in movies such as "Where The Boys Are".

BRENDA LEE - FOOL #1

The gals were really popular in the very early '60's. Brenda Lee is another great singer. I really like her. She has a big voice for someone so very, very, very tiny. I'm guessing she's about 8 years old here. Okay, maybe not. But she's about 3 feet tall. Not that there's anything wrong with that. One nitpick I have about this video: she is lip-syncing the song. That's the only quibble I have, however. I think she's great, and the song is great.

RICK(Y) NELSON - TRAVELIN' MAN

He started out as "Ricky", and later became just "Rick". But that's really beside the point. This is widely credited as being the very first music video. It tells the tale of Rick(y) traveling all over the place - apparently to Mexico, then to Alaska, then to Hawaii, and on to parts unknown. The incredible part is that he (apparently) did all this traveling by BOAT. Wow, Rick(y) must have had a lot of free time on his hands. But I guess air travel was kind of pricey in 1961.


THE DRIFTERS - SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE MOVIES

I picked this one from the Drifters, because I like this song, and I haven't heard it in ages. Sorry about the Karaoke titles - but hey, feel free to sing along! The Drifters had many hits in their day. Also sorry for the lip-syncing. There are not a lot of good Drifters videos out there. Again, I hate to even point out things like this, but man, their choreography BLOWS! I've seen my dog do better footwork than this. But they still had great songs.

THE TOKENS - THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT

Okay, here's the deal ~ I know this is not the "classic" black & white video, but I have to admit it ~ I never knew these guys were WHITE. Seriously. I never knew this. As I reel from the shock, I do want to say that I don't appreciate Disney & Company appropriating this song. The song was NOT done by animated lions; it was done by real people. And stop stealing our nostalgia.

We'll close out this segment with a GREAT rock song from 1961, one of my all-time favorites:

DEL SHANNON - RUNAWAY

This is a classic song. And is that a wicked organ solo or what? Somewhere, some dude is sitting around telling his grandkids that he played the organ solo on that record. And they're saying, "Yea, whatever, Grandpa". Kids are rude. As a side note, on this video, did you note that all the "running/dancing" girls had the same hairstyle? I'll let you in on a little secret ~ that was NOT their real hair. We had something back then we called "falls". They were clumps of fake hair that you pinned to your head to make you look like you had long hair. And they were made of the cheapest synthetic crap ever. You wouldn't want to try to brush it out. It would be a nightmare. Thus, you just pinned that crappy plastic hair to your head that had been sitting around on your nightstand for a fortnight. And off you'd go, off to run/dance to the latest songs on the hit parade.



More to come. MUCH more to come.