I
was a country fan; I'd barely even heard the name Gordon Lightfoot
before 1974. I'd heard some of his songs, but I didn't know they were
his. Then in '74 I was working my first office job and our little
three-desk closet contained, besides three people, an AM radio. For
eight hours that radio yelped out the pop hits of the day. A lot of them
were just dumb ~ The Streak, Seasons In The Sun, (You're) Having My
Baby (one of the worst singles of all time). But there were a few
standouts, none more than Sundown. I fell in love with the voice; I fell
in love with the song.
Even many years later, when I wrote a song about that first work experience, I referenced Sundown:
As Lightfoot sings, he offers his dire warning
Tells me that I'd better take care
Sometimes
we're drawn to voices that are different; an unfamiliar accent,
perhaps, suggesting a far-off land. But often we cling to voices that
sound like home. Lightfoot was Canadian and I grew up not far from the
border, so the way he pronounced words was familiar. Someone told me
once, "I can tell you're from North Dakota, because you sound Canadian."
A weird juxtaposition, but regions don't simply break in two at some
imaginary line. Thus, Gordon's voice warmed me, like listening to my dad
speak.
Growing up with country music, I was familiar with songs like this:
And this:
I
had no clue who wrote them and I didn't actually care. Teenagers can be
rather cavalier. I only cared whether I liked the song or not. Later,
it all made sense. Gordon Lightfoot, aside from being a master lyricist,
wrote songs that had a haunting air, a keening loneliness. Lots of rain
and whispering winds. Even living in Los Angeles, far away from
Orillia, Ontario, he brought the ghosts with him. Melancholy rests in
the bones of those borne of the cold prairie. Ian Tyson, also from
Canada, shared that disposition. Just listen to Four Strong Winds.
More than a lyricist and a composer, though, Lightfoot was a painter ~ a painter of stories, scenes, settings:
As
much as I treasure Sundown, there is another of Lightfoot's
compositions that kicks me in the gut every time I hear it. When my kids
were little, we vacationed many summers in Duluth, Minnesota, on the
shore of Lake Superior. The town itself is old, rather threadbare,
unless one motors up the big hill, far away from the water, to the staid
residential neighborhoods with their split levels and four-wheelers
parked in driveways. We preferred to keep to Highway 61, with its quaint
fish cafes and road pullouts where one could breathe in the roaring
waves and watch ominous clouds gather and screeching seagulls glide
below them.
The
harbor in Duluth is called Canal Park, where the iron ore ships
maneuver through the channel on their mission to take on a new load or
drop one off. The ships are magnificent, all rusty red and black and
invariably emblazoned with the shipping owner's name. Across the harbor
stretches the Aerial Lift Bridge, which must be raised in order for the
ships to slip past. At Canal Park, one is immersed in history,
heightened by a stroll through the maritime museum plopped down right
beside the harbor and stuffed with ancient black and white photos
alongside a giant steam engine and replica crew cabins. Every time,
every single time I stepped inside the museum, a certain song wedged
itself in my brain and didn't let go until we waved goodbye to Duluth in
our rear view mirror.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee Superior, they said, never gives up her dead When the gales of November come early
Some say Lightfoot considered this his masterpiece. It was.
I got to see Gordon Lightfoot in concert in 2001 at an old historic theater in downtown Minneapolis. He was in his sixties then and his performance was legendary. He wasn't the virile young man of Sundown; he was seasoned and not the least bit melancholy.Writers can write mournful songs but that doesn'tmake them hopelessly depressed.As much as a painter isn't his painting, a songwriter isn't his song.
I think it was all just the prairie winds.
Rest in peace, Gordon Lightfoot. Thank you for more than I can ever say.
At the outset, Ken determined that the focus of his country music series would be Johnny Cash. I don't know why, but I can guess. As a non-country fan who probably is a subscriber to Rolling Stone Magazine, Cash took on a sheen; became a sort of demigod in Burns' eyes. Ken needed someone to wrap his episodes around, and who better? Cash led a melodramatic life. He had it all ~ family tragedy, rockabilly roots, substance abuse, infidelity; plus he sired a hugely successful daughter. The continuum.
The commenters on the one country music site I frequent invariably mentioned their dismay with Burns' absorption with Johnny Cash, to the exclusion of many deserving artists. It's a shame, really. A lost opportunity.
Jerry Lee Lewis ~ Ken spent a lot of time, quizzically on Elvis Presley. Not once was there a time when Elvis was even remotely country. His label-mate on Sun Records, however, not only is one of the most phenomenal artists of all time, but Jerry Lee Lewis actually had a successful country career. Nowhere in this eight-part series did Jerry Lee get a single mention. And, unlike Elvis, Jerry Lee actually loves music, country or otherwise. Jerry Lee is not a caricature.
Ray Price ~ We caught a glimpse of Ray Price somewhere within episode five or six, or something. I don't remember, but it was in the context of talking about some other artist. Had Ken been at all curious, he would have found that Ray Price was the country singer of the fifties and early sixties. No, not Hank Snow or Roy Acuff ~ Ray Price. And since Ken seems to have a fascination with Nudie suits, who better? But let's be frank: Willie can thank his lucky stars that Ray Price recorded Night Life, and Roger Miller would not have had a career at all without Invitation To The Blues. Bill Anderson? How about City Lights? I could go on, but Ray can speak for himself:
Don Gibson ~ I'm not a fan of Don's singing, but that's not what made him iconic. He wrote many of the songs that were heavily featured (by other artists) in the series: I Can't Stop Loving You (Ray Charles), Sweet Dreams (Patsy Cline); as well as (I'd Be A) Legend In My Time (Ronnie Milsap) and Just One Time (Connie Smith), and many others. To feature those artists and not include the man who wrote the songs is inexcusable.
Don Rich ~ I've heard Buck Owens' recording of Together Again when he sang harmony with himself. Trust me, Don Rich hit that song out of the park. There wasn't enough focus on iconic bands overall in this series. The Strangers (and Bonnie Owens' contribution to Merle's sound) received no mention. The declaration that Roy Nichols was in someone else's band when Merle snatched him up went mostly unnoticed.
Don Rich was the heart of the Buckaroos, and if Buck was still alive, he'd say the same. Everything changed after Don died. He was the bandleader, he was the Telecaster master, he was the harmony singer extraordinaire.
Gene Watson ~ Country music was soooo in the doldrums in 1975. We had Tanya Tucker and...well, that's about it. I was working a menial job that allowed me to carry my portable radio around with me when I heard Love In The Hot Afternoon, and I was transfixed. This guy could sing, and he hadn't even yet shown off his best stuff:
Glen Campbell ~ Glen wasn't just some guy who had a network television show, but that's what one would glean from Ken Burns' dismissive reference to him. In the late sixties, one could not flip on their radio without hearing a Campbell song, ad nauseum, I would add. But damn ~ he deserved some love in this series, and he got zero.
Marty Robbins ~ come on! I know Ken is not a country aficionado, but Marty Robbins? Did Ken at least watch Breaking Bad?
Tanya Tucker ~ She was thirteen and I was seventeen and hotly jealous when my radio started playing Delta Dawn. Ken talked about Brenda Lee (who I love), but no reference to this phenom? Ken, Ken.
There are other niggling points, but these are the standouts to me; in addition to George, of course, who deserved far better. I could forgive a few, but it seems so obvious to me that country icons, regardless of whether they did or didn't sing about prisons, shouldn't have been ignored.
A couple less seconds about Johnny's Rick Rubin recordings and a few more about artists that country fans revere could have sent this series into the stratosphere.
I unfortunately don't have two hours to devote to watching a documentary each night. I have a full-time job, and I'm frankly tired by the end of the day. That said, I wish I could keep up with Ken Burns' Country Music. I'll catch up eventually. I've watched most of Episode One and most of Episode Four. My husband, who is no country music fan, clicked on the fourth episode last night and rather than quibble that we were out of order (which generally makes me out of sorts), I decided to just be thankful he was willing to watch at all.
The first episode recounted the (ancient) history of the genre, and it was fascinating in an historical way, rather than a musical way. I like history, and the photographs reminded me of Burns' other series, Civil War. That said, I could easily enjoy the rest of the installments without finishing Episode One.
Episode Four was more up my alley. It covers the time period 1953 - 1963, when things in country became interesting. I'm not quite old enough to remember much before 1960, but I do know the music ~ Marty Robbins, Ray Price (who was lucky to get a ten-second clip!), Patsy Cline, of course; the emergence of Loretta Lynn. Aside Patsy, the most fascinating star of the episode is Brenda Lee. Brenda began her career at the age of nine, and was there to witness it all. I relished watching Mel Tillis recount stories of driving the touring car and little Brenda keeping him awake on late nights leaning over the car seat, telling him corny kid jokes.
As expected, the installment leaned heavily on Johnny Cash tales ~ Cash, the country singer those who dislike country always cite as their favorite country artist. I'm okay with the emphasis on Johnny; it was pre-ordained. A documentarian who isn't seeped in the subject matter would naturally feel obliged to exalt him. We country fans know he was essentially inconsequential, at least during the time period. What was unexpected was the time eaten up by Elvis stories, to the exclusion of actual country artists. Yes, Sun Records produced stars, but of the quartet of Cash, Presley, Orbison, and Perkins, the only real country artist of the bunch was Cash. My readers know that I'm not an Elvis fan ~ let's face it, the guy was strange and only a middling vocalist. What he most certainly was not was country. I would have rather, given a choice between the four, watched a segment about a true phenomenon, Roy Orbison, even though he wasn't country, either.
The Nashville Sound was talked about, rightfully. Wrongfully, Chet Atkins, who invented the term, ruined country music. Owen Bradley was Atkins' competition. The difference between the two was that Bradley played to the artists' strengths ~ he didn't try to citify Loretta Lynn, and he steered Patsy Cline in a direction she didn't even know she needed to travel. Chet Atkins made every recording sound exactly the same. The only recording Atkins got right was "Detroit City" (which, by the way, wasn't referenced).
It was appropriate to highlight the Everly Brothers. Their music was country ~ I don't care how they were labeled; it was country. Felice and Boudleaux Bryant can take credit for that (The Bryants, by the way, had more than 900 of their songs recorded!)
We got to see Faron Young doing Hello Walls, which introduced the Willie Nelson segment. I was sad to learn that Willie had sold some of his songs, including Night Life, just to survive. A songwriter should never have to sell his songs. Faron, though, even though Willie offered, wouldn't buy Hello Walls. He instead loaned Willie five hundred dollars and let Nelson retain his copyright. (Oh, that dastardly Faron Young, they always say.)
The Willie introduction naturally led to a segment about Patsy recording Crazy (which was originally titled, "Stupid" ~ a fortunate change). My husband said, "So you like that song?" Uh, yea. Crazy is the best country song of all time. "But what about the 'cosmopolitan' sound?" I said, there's a difference between doing it wrong and doing it right. Crazy was done right.
One of Merle's favorites, Lefty Frizzell, was mentioned. Rosanne Cash talked about her dad, Mel talked about Roger Miller (who hopefully gets his due in Episode Five). A lot of people, including Brenda Lee, talked about Patsy. Cline was before my time, so stories about her fascinate me. Merle also thought Honky Tonk Girl was Loretta Lynn's best song (I agree ~ I generally agree with Merle).
It's the stories, the reminiscences, that fascinate me. I know the bare details. I know Merle was in the San Quentin audience when Cash appeared there in 1959, but hearing Merle recount it brings it to life. I cherish the memories relayed in these episodes, because they will eventually be gone (like Mel and Merle are gone).
Ken Burns has accomplished a remarkable feat. Yea, I have my quibbles, but who else but Burns would even endeavor to tackle country music?
Based on my limited viewing (at this writing), I'm giving Ken Burns a million thumbs up.
I was so excited to begin country music month, I realize I gave short shrift to the decade of the sixties. Granted, for part of the sixties I was too young to remember much, but the wonder of music is, one can hear songs from eons before and fall in love with them still.
When I embraced country around 1967, I knew I had a lot of catching up to do. It wasn't that I was oblivious to country music entirely; my mom and dad's tastes had seeped inside my brain. But I was a sixties kid ~ I liked The Beatles and other assorted British Invasion groups. I'd had a brief interlude in the mid-decade of residing at my uncle's restaurant/bar establishment, and what else was there beside the radio and the jukebox? My uncle Howard stocked his machine with the latest country hits of the day, because that was expected by couples who stopped in to sip beer and whiskey sours and chance onto the dance floor for a two-step. So I knew who Buck Owens was, and I was familiar with exactly one Bobby Bare song.
As I researched "old" country, however, I found some gems; so let's stroll through the decade, shall we?
1960. This is not just the best song of 1960, it's one of the best country songs (er, instrumentals) ever. No one records instrumentals anymore ~ they died when the decade ended. It's quite a feat to grab one of the top twenty-five "best country songs ever" slots with a song that has no words. Words equal emotion. How can an instrumental do that? Here's how:
1961.
'61 is tough, because there is more than one song that tops the year. There are, in fact, three; and two of them were written by Willie Nelson:
1962. '62 is tough. It wasn't the best year for country singles (sort of like 1981). One looks for songs that later became classics, and there really weren't many. I'm going to pick a couple that I either like for my own reasons or were later re-recorded and became even bigger hits:
Things started getting interesting in 1963. Suddenly Bakersfield was giving Nashville a run for its money, but never fear ~ producer Chet Atkins was on the case, especially with a song written by Mel Tillis:
June wrote a song for Johnny:
Then there was Buck:
Something happened in 1964 ~ a phenomenon. This new guy who was sorta weird, but sorta mesmerizing, suddenly appeared. He was all over every network TV show, and none of the hosts actually spoke to him, because they were too busy having a laugh at his expense. Turns out Roger Miller was no flash in the pan and no joke. He'd written a lot of classic country hits before he embarked on a solo career. But what did network people know? Who's laughing now, idiots?
Take your Lorettas; take your Norma Jeans. This new girl singer (with the songwriting assistance of Bill Anderson) started racking up a string of number ones in 1964, and didn't stop for another decade:
I'm not one of those "George Jones is the greatest country singer of all time" adherents, but this song was pretty cool:
Truly, Roger Miller and Buck Owens dominated 1965, but since I've already featured them, let's find a few other gems.
1966 was rather a transitional year. Buck and Roger and Johnny were still dominating, but a few new voices appeared, such as David Houston and some guy named Merle. A young kid who called himself Hank, Junior, first appeared on the charts. There are those who worship Hank, Jr.; one of those people is not me. The fanatics are unaware of his early recording history ~ not me. But I digress.
You know that Ray Price holds a special place in my heart, and he had three hits in the top 100 in '66. Here's one:
Then there was this new girl singer:
1967 is where I come in, which is a weird time to show up, considering that the charts were dominated by yucky Jimmy Webb songs and pseudo-folk protest tracks like Skip A Rope. The first country albums I bought were by Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings, and Charley Pride. Even at age twelve I had good taste.
Here's a bonus:
By 1968 Merle was a superstar, Glen Campbell was still churning out pop hits, Tammy had the hit that would define her career. Johnny Cash had a network TV show.
I've been trying not to repeat artists, but this particular hit has special meaning to me ~ not because I was in prison or anything ~ but because this was a hit the year I actually "met" Merle Haggard:
Just because live performance videos of David Houston are infinitesimal doesn't mean he wasn't huge in the sixties, because he was ~ I was there. It bothers me that simply because an artist died years ago, we tend to erase them from history. I would feature one of Houston's hits, but I can't find them. This phenomenon also applies to Wynn Stewart, who, if you don't believe me, none other than Dwight Yoakam cites as one of his early influences. Here he is, with none other than Don Rich:
Something interesting happened in 1968 ~ a rock 'n roll icon decided he wanted to go country. And if you know anything about Jerry Lee Lewis, you know he does exactly what he wants. I love Jerry Lee:
This new duo showed up in 1968, featuring a girl singer with impossibly high blonde hair. I wonder whatever happened to her:
Lynn Anderson was more (much more) than Rose Garden, a song I came to truly hate after hearing it on the radio one bazillion times. Lynn is another somebody who should not be forgotten. Before her then-husband got his hooks into her and moved her to Columbia Records, she was truly country, and her Chart albums prove it. Here is a hit from '68:
No disrespect to Merle, but this is the best song that came out of 1968. On the rare instances when I hear it on Willie's Roadhouse, I am right there croaking along (he sings higher than I can). Johnny Bush:
1969 was Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. And Merle. You might not know that there were others, and there definitely were. Faron Young was my favorite country singer for years, until George Strait showed up. And speaking of sing-along country songs, well, here you go:
Maybe it was my pop roots peeking through, but I played the hell out of this '45, recorded by a former member of Paul Revere and the Raiders and written by Joe South (curse you, Joe, for Rose Garden).
Freddy Weller:
Yea, the sixties ~ that decade became imprinted on my musical mind and never left. Maybe it was my age; maybe it was simply that country was so good; so pure. So new? The sixties were a renaissance. The nineteen eighties were an epiphany, but they couldn't have happened without the sixties.
I was thirteen in 1968, transitioning between seventh and eighth grades, which was kind of a dead zone, really. Long gone was the heady anticipation of graduating from elementary school, yet I had a million years to go (it seemed) to finally transition to the new high school building and be "grown up".
My junior high was probably one of the oldest buildings in my little town. Back in 1910 or so, it had served as the high school ~ black and white portraits of stern long-ago high school principals adorned its sanitarium-grey walls. From the outside it resembled a prison.
And yes, this was our gymnasium (minus the fallen plaster, which would have been dangerous for playing dodge ball):
I had to take the city bus to get (almost) to school, because the school district had not yet established bus service all the way out to my home (in its defense, there were only seven kids who lived in my neighborhood). Last stop on the city bus route was the old Prince Hotel, which was one of those post-World War I hostels that featured tufted burgundy armchairs with gold buttons, as well as spittoons in its lobby; and housed derelicts and Spanish-American war veterans who from their vestibule repose liked to ogle adolescent girls; and its lone desk attendant was older than death and just as lively.
The school's dress code prohibited pants (for girls, I mean), and our dresses were audaciously short; so on minus twenty-degree winter mornings, I'd alight the city bus at the Terror Hotel and commence my six-block tramp along slippery sidewalks in my mini-dress, faux-rabbit coat, plastic knee-high snow boots and no hat (hats were for sissies), clutching my US history and earth science textbooks and three spiral notebooks.
All to frost-bittenly arrive at a place I didn't want to visit for six-plus hours, but an argument my parents (such as they were) were not of a mind to debate.
My only saving grace was that I had a best friend, albeit one who crazily loved country music (one has to take their best friends wherever they find them). A year or so before, I was grooving to The Rascals and Three Dog Night, and now here I was, taking a crash course in the idiosyncrasies of honky tonk.
By now I pretty much got it. I'd figured out who I liked (Merle, Waylon, Tammy) and who I didn't (Glen, Conway, Sonny James). I'd long known who Buck Owens was, but I also learned about new artists like David Houston and Dolly Parton.
Unfortunately, 1968 was a weird year in country music. The worst singles hit number one, while (now) classic songs languished far below on the charts.
My best friend Alice and I agreed that this song reeked. I've always hated political songs, especially those that preach (and which ones don't?) Our main objection to this single, however, was that it was barely country. That, and the fact that it was played on the radio all the time. "Stab 'em in the back, that's the name of the game" ~ we enjoyed making fun of that line. Plus the whole, "Daddy hates Mommy and Mommy hates Dad" really didn't need to flow out of my speaker. Unless my speaker was spewing my own personal reality.
And this song garnered way more fame than it deserved. Again, there are so many things to hate about this song, but the old standby, "overplayed" is number one. I never realized until I studied more of Tom T. Hall's songs that he rarely wrote choruses. Sure, he had refrains from time to time; but I think the absence of a chorus has caused his songs to not age well. Listeners like something they can latch onto. Most people who sing along to the radio mess up the verses comically, but they always land the chorus.
Great songs like this only reached #10. Marty Robbins was a conundrum ~ difficult to pigeonhole. On the one hand, he truly loved his western ballads, and on the other, he could be truly soulful. It seems Marty never once gave an insightful interview, so fans will never know why he wrote the songs he did, or if he even ever thought about it.
I came to appreciate this song later. At the time I frankly wanted twin fiddles and steel guitar.
And this was only number twelve? I won't get into the whole history of me and Merle and this song, but you can read it here. If I hadn't looked at the 1968 charts, I would have sworn this was the number one single of the year.
Twenty-one? Really? Tammy had appeared on the scene in 1967 and had many hit singles before alas, "Stand By Your Man" became both a phenomenon and a punchline in '68. In hindsight, one can pinpoint when a promising career began to stagger downhill, although it's not Tammy's fault that she wrote a song everyone latched onto. The same thing happened with Lynn Anderson, who I loved until "Rose Garden" vomited onto the scene.
Regardless, number twenty-one is good:
I found a new favorite singer in '68. I feel like whenever I post a Faron Young live performance, I have to apologize. Faron was a superb singer, but a real drag to watch live. I somehow convinced my dad to drive us up to the State Fair one year to see Faron in person. Dad, and surely Mom, didn't want to go, and sitting in the bleachers during his concert, I wanted to crawl under my seat and hide in embarrassment. It wasn't (I don't think) that Faron was tipsy; I just think he didn't give a damn about singing a song straight. Maybe he'd been around so long, he said, "screw it". But trust me, his live performances and his recordings were eons apart. Nobody was better in that era.
This single wasn't from 1968, but I think David Houston deserves a mention. Nobody remembers him now (well, I do), but David Houston was huge. Not only did he have many top solo singles throughout his career, but he recorded hit duets with both Tammy Wynette ("My Elusive Dreams") and a newcomer, Barbara Mandrell. In 1968 alone, he had four top one hundred songs. As life marched on, I sort of forgot about David Houston, until I learned he had died at age fifty-eight from a brain aneurysm. Houston is one of those artists that this blog is about, because some of us don't forget.
Country duos suddenly became a thing around 1967-1968. There had been duets before, but I don't think the CMA's had a category for Country Duo before these two folks got together (before then it was "Vocal Group", which was rather awkward when only two people were involved). Then, suddenly, duets were everywhere. I remember hearing a song on the radio for the first time and saying, "I think that's Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty!" And thus duos were off and running.
But it was these next two who dominated:
Here's another one of those forgotten artists ~ Wynn Stewart. Wynn was a pioneer in the Bakersfield Sound. Buck liked him; Dwight plays him on his "Bakersfield Beat" Sirius channel. I liked him, too, and my dad really liked him. Dad thought this next song was the bomb. It's not from '68, but Wynn had two top one hundred hits that year (and props to this video featuring the awesome Don Rich):
This is most likely my favorite song from 1968. Mom had shipped my little sister and me off to Texas to stay with my big sister while things were "disheveled" at home. I loved it there and didn't want to come back. We'd stay up 'til the early morning hours playing Scrabble, drinking Dr. Pepper, and listening to Bill Mack on WBAP. Johnny Bush was a newcomer and there was a lot of talk that he was trying to be the next Ray Price. I didn't care ~ I loved this song, and I still love Johnny Bush. Unfortunately, I can't find a decent live performance video, but here's the song in all its glory:
Overall, I wasn't too sad to leave my pop world behind ~ it was simply an adjustment. I liked the stability of having a friend with a semi-normal family, and I'd thrown my heart into country music. There was so much to discover ~ like traveling to a foreign country for the first time. In '67 I was still on the fence about music. By 1968, country had claimed me.
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.
How far back does memory travel? I was born in 1955 and I readily admit I don't remember snoozing in my crib. I don't remember being bald, but I apparently was. I've always had hair problems. By the time I entered elementary school, my mom had obviously thrown up her hands. Photos of me from around that time tend to feature the high-bangs look. The remainder of my hair just lay in an unformed clump around my skull. I think moms in the early sixties were required to scissor bangs as close to their kids' scalps as possible.
Worse were the Toni home permanents. My mother, I'll admit, was not handy with hair, which is even more reason not to try to give her kid a perm. My philosophy of hair, then and now, is just leave me the hell alone. But I digress.
I think my earliest memory was of the time I almost drowned. I either remember it or the story was told so many times that I've simply imagined myself in that perilous situation. I think it's a memory. There was a coulee across the road from our farm, and I liked water. I really liked water. Today I can't imagine myself slashing through grassy, slimy weeds taller than me to reach a "pool", but I guess I was determined. My flashback is of lying on my back in water that was oddly warm and my entire family bending over from the bank, reaching for me. Five people. I can clearly see my eleven-year-old brother's face, and my dad's. My sisters and my mom were there, too. They all seemed peculiarly concerned. I was not. I definitely was not panicked. I frankly did not see what the big deal was. Didn't they know that I needed to do things? My nosy family assuredly killed my buzz. And, I guess, saved my life.
Musically, the charts chugged slowly. Songs hung around, a couple of years, generally. Perhaps it was because fewer records were released or simply that life moved at a slower pace. We had the opportunity to savor songs and imprint them upon our brains, which was not always optimal. We always think we remember the good songs, but we actually don't. We remember the annoying ones. The Buddy Holly tracks we only caught much later. I don't remember being cognizant of "That'll Be The Day" until sometime in the early seventies, when I purchased one of those compilation LP's, K-Tel's "Best Hits of Any Damn Era We Choose To Glom Together".
No, the songs I remember are essentially thanks to my dad and his infernal Magnavox kitchen radio.
Songs like this:
No wonder I wanted to drown myself.
By the time I entered kindergarten in 1960 and discovered that there was such a thing as "showing off" (or "show and tell", as my teacher called it), I was keen to bring records to class that I could perform to. My fellow students were mere onlookers as I executed my best dance moves. I'm guessing some of them pulled their cotton rugs from their cubbies and settled in for nap time as I sang about "making love to you".
My awareness of 1957 songs seems to have gelled about three years later (again, attributed to the slow gait of life).
My mom took me to my very first concert around that time, at the Grand Forks Armory. I don't know why she took me -- maybe my dad was busy -- because, frankly, Mom didn't like taking me places due to blushing embarrassment. We saw Marty Robbins and his band...the..."guys in the band"...(I have no idea what Marty's band was called). Mom and I sat in the third row and saw Marty perform this song:
When the show ended, Mom nudged me in the ribs and prodded me to go up and get Marty's autograph. I flatly refused. My thinking was, what if he speaks to me? I have never been a good talker. And, by the by, why didn't she queue up to get his signature? Don't be pushin' a five-year-old to do something you're scared to do for yourself. On the plus side, I did get a chance to see Marty Robbins again in concert, when I was in my twenties and had tow-heads of my own. Yes, Mom was there, too. I still didn't get his autograph. I will point out that she didn't, either.
I never liked this song, nor did I like Sonny James. I don't think Dad liked him much, either, but I definitely remember this track from '57:
And seriously? Five background singers? That's just egomaniacal.
You might only know Pat Boone from shilling for Relief Factor, and the obvious question is, Pat Boone is still alive? But he was using a sharp stick to scribble stuff in the grit in 1957:
I don't remember Elvis. I remember Rick(y) Nelson because he was on a TV show. I have a faint consciousness of Fats Domino and, most likely, the Everly Brothers.
This I remember, because who could ever forget?
My sisters could fill in the blanks better than I. They were older -- twelve and thirteen -- and at an age when music sheared like a knife. I was just a dumb toddler who took what was presented to me and called it "music".
Oh, and I remember some guy who people say "created" rock 'n roll:
I don't know about that. I guess I'd have to ask my dad.
I'm not saying they only have one song, but there's one that seers their heart. They probably don't even know what song it is until they hear it on the radio.
It's the rare artist who has many songs that live up to the lofty promise of a weighty career. For me, I can only name a few -- the Beatles, George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, Roy Orbison -- these are the artists who trip off my tongue.
An age-old question is, "If you were stranded on a desert island and could only possess one album (and apparently something to play it on), what would it be?" I always think, well, I'd get tired of it really fast. But if I had to choose only one album to take with me to that castaway experience, I'd most likely pick an artist whose voice soothed me (because being stranded, with no hope, on an isolated mound of terra firma could, I imagine, rapidly plunge me into a deep depression). I'd rather take a mix-tape of songs I like best, although that's not a panacea, either. Hearing the same songs ten thousand times will quickly devolve into utter hatred.
I was thinking about artists who had just one good song. If an artist has one good song, that's quite enough. That's more than the other quadrillion artists out there have ever accomplished. It's not that they were necessarily one-hit wonders -- they most likely had other songs -- but maybe they just had that one good one.
I can't possibly list all my favorite one good songs, but here are a few:
These are some of my "ones". Kind of a lot, as I peruse them, but that's how music goes. I could write a completely separate post with my "ones". I like ones, though. I like songs -- good songs.
I need a long-playing tape for my desert island playlist.
Dave Porter can create the soundtrack of my life anytime.
It takes a rare talent to do it right. When it's right, you know it. When someone is phoning it in, you know that, too.
I confess, I am obsessed with Breaking Bad. My life partner and I have watched the entire series twice now, and damn, I forgot a lot of stuff from the first time! If there is a more perfect TV show, well....no, there just isn't.
Aside from the cast and the writing and the cinematography, there is the music. If I was a music supervisor, I would luxuriate in my serendipity. But it's a hard job, matching the quintessential track to that breath-stirring scene.
I could create a complete album of tracks from Breaking Bad, and relive each moment in infinitesimal detail. And I think I might.
Gale Boetticher dripping coffee into a carafe:
David Costabile must have had to study that song for weeks to be able to sing along.
It was a touch of genius to use a dusty cassette tape of Marty Robbins in the last episode:
The most obvious reference that nobody thought of:
Walter White, singing:
The most ingenuous use of a song I never liked:
I could watch Breaking Bad over and over and over. It gets inside your bones. I'm smitten with Jesse and Mike and Hector. And Badger and Skinny Pete. And mostly Hank and peculiar Marie.
It's mostly thanks to Vince Gilligan and Bryan Cranston, but also to Dave Porter, for creating the soundtrack to a bizarre world.
SPOILER ALERT: Don't watch this if you haven't watched the series in its entirety (and you really, really need to):
...is that, once you name them, you're automatically sick of them.
That's the thing with music. It's fickle.
I once, on a dare from my husband, came up with my "best" list. I stand by it (although I actually don't remember it in its entirety). I know there was a Merle song, a George song, a Randy song, and some others. A Patsy song.
Coming up with a list like that is a solemn task. I couldn't do it with rock. I'm mired in a certain era of rock music, because I gave up on it sometime in the late sixties. And there was so much more music yet to come. And because rock music is so vast. Country is different, because classics are classics. They don't change. Country music ceased to exist sometime around 2001.
I hear songs on Sirius and think, "I love that song!" And yet it's not on my list. How could I love it if it's not on my list? Because a list is endless. And lists are rather sterile. Lists don't take "heart" into account. And let's face it: lists are comprised to impress other people.
Why this post?
Because I heard a song tonight that I don't know is on my list, but it ought'a be.
I haven't heard this song in years. And I love it.
In 1970 I was fifteen and carving out my own, independent life. Things had been bad at home for about four years, and I was frankly tired of it -- tired of being mired in the constant physical and verbal battles between my mom and dad. Too, by fifteen I'd acquired the best thing that ever happened in my life -- my own room. My mom and dad owned a motel, which was the thing that started our lives on the unremitting slide off a slippery cliff. On the plus side, a motel in the sixties meant a ready supply of unoccupied rooms; a fact that I seized upon in order to whine and cajole my mom into finally giving in and agreeing to let me move out of the closet-sized room I shared with my little brother and sister and the bunk bed shoved up against the wall, and into Room Number One, which was a bit further than hollering distance away from our tiny "living quarters" behind the sliding door of the motel office.
My new living arrangements were sublime. I didn't eat, so I was able to avoid family dinners, if we actually had them. What I actually remember is my brother and sister being fed once we'd arrived home from school and my mom grazing throughout the evening. Dad wasn't around. He was busy working on his hobby -- getting drunk out of his skull and passing out anywhere he could find a safe place to land.
I had a best friend and hobbies of my own -- music! And smoking. I'd learned how to chord on a guitar a few years before and by now I was pretty proficient at the basics -- A, D, G, E, and sometimes B (if needed). The callouses on my fingertips were well-developed. If there was such a thing as tuners back then, I was unaware of them. I'd bought a '45 record Buck Owens had issued (I think with one of his songbooks), "How To Tune Your Guitar". That record was my "guitar tuner". I locked myself behind the locked and chained door of my room and listened to country records and strummed along with them...and sang. Nobody could hear me anyway, so what the heck? I became pretty good at singing harmony, as long as I had the record to prompt me.
I'd latched onto country music because Alice (my best friend) was a die-hard country fan who was also the featured vocalist in a local country band. By 1970 rock was a faint memory and I knew all the top country artists and had developed my own tastes, rather than simply mimicking what Alice liked. I'd discovered all-night country radio, WHO in Des Moines, Iowa, with DJ Mike Hoyer. WHO had the strongest signal. I loved Bill Mack from WBAP, too, but a Fort Worth signal was only audible in the wee small hours. Ralph Emery? Forget it. The night had to be crystal clear and the moon full before I could ever get WSM to be more than a crackle on my radio. Mike Hoyer was my guy. He also played full albums, around two in the morning. (Yea, in the summer, I stayed up and waited for them).
In 1970 we country fans were still worshiping the old guard. It would take about three years before new acts would arrive on the scene and take over. Country music moved at a slow pace.
Don't get me wrong; the old guard was excellent -- Merle, Ray Price,Tammy, Marty. If one was to name the greatest country artists of all time, these four would make the top five...or at least top ten. Merle was hitting his stride in 1970, becoming recognized as a musical phenomenon. If one were to scan his career, however, Merle's best recordings came before '70. The same with Ray and Tammy and Marty Robbins. They were all "mid-career" by that time. But there were other artists, too.
David Houston first hit it big with a song that in 1967 made me cringe. I was twelve and at that awkward stage at which my dad had the car radio tuned to country music and I was held hostage if I ever needed him to traverse me anywhere. David Houston sang about being "almost persuaded" and I knew it was kind of dirty, but I wasn't sure why. Hearing a song about s-e-x at age twelve with your dad in the car is the ultimate nightmare. Nevertheless, David Houston went on to record several tracks that became hits, and by fifteen, I was okay with the story lines.
David Houston lived a short life. He suffered an aneurysm in 1993 and passed away. He was a huge star in the late sixties/early seventies, an artist who would have continued to carry on.
Here is his 1970 hit (very few live performance videos exist of David, mainly those in which he performed duets with Barbara Mandrell, so appreciate this for its music):
And then, of course, there was Merle:
My memories of Ray Price will always be tied up with my dad. There was a time when my dad was my hero, back before the "bad things" happened. Childhood memories are like a hand print on one's brain. They're stamped there for perpetuity. "My" Ray Price was a singer of three-part harmony songs and twin fiddles. The Ray of 1970 was a sort of a betrayal.
I didn't like this song. I do now. I like it "sort of". It's a Kris Kristofferson song. Kris Kristofferson, at one time, was the most prodigious songwriter in country music. He's no Merle, but he's different. Kris said things that nobody else said in quite the same way. If I was to emulate anyone, as an amateur songwriter, Kris would be the one.
For The Good Times:
Charley Pride is an artist who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. I first became aware of him in 1967 (?) with "Just Between You and Me", which is one of the most excellent country songs ever written. He was just a guy on the radio who sang good songs. By the time Alice and I attended the immortal Merle Haggard concert in 1968, we'd learned that Charley was Black, so we weren't shell shocked when he took the stage as Merle's opening act. Granted, it was odd for a Black man to sing country music, but if he was country, we were okay with that.
By 1970 we'd settled into a state of comfort with Charley. The production values on his recordings could have used some improvement, but he was still recording good songs:
Johnny Cash had a network TV show on ABC, and Alice and I watched it with religious fervor. I wasn't even a Johnny Cash fan. I was more fascinated by the Statlers. who sang harmony and by Carl Perkins who, by then, was relegated to a backup player in Cash's band. The most memorable thing I remember from Johnny's show was a song called, "I Was There" that featured the Carter Sisters and the Statler Brothers; a gospel song that those in the know label "call and response".
"Sunday Morning Coming Down" was yet another Kristofferson song. I was in my second year of Spanish, so I actually translated this song into the Spanish language as an exercise. I can't listen to this song without hearing, "no fue mal".
I love Marty Robbins. The first concert I ever attended, when I was five, was a Marty Robbins concert. My mom took me. I have no recollection of how that came to be. I didn't even know my mom liked music. I'm guessing the concert venue was the Grand Forks Armory. I have a vague memory, like a dream, of Marty strumming a teeny guitar. That's all I remember, except for after the show, when Mom tried to cajole me to go up and get Marty's autograph. I was mortified at the prospect and I flatly refused. I note that she didn't get an autograph, either.
I got the opportunity to see Marty again, sometime around 1980, this time in Duluth, Minnesota. We were on vacation, with -- what do you know? -- Mom and Dad. I also had two tiny boys by that time. Not as tiny as the guitar Marty liked to play, however. By then, I wouldn't have been too embarrassed to get Marty's autograph. I would have been sort of embarrassed, but I still would have done it, had we not been perched in the nosebleed section of the auditorium. By the time all of us made our way down to the floor, Marty was no doubt back on the bus, zooming down I35 on his way to the next stop on his tour schedule.
Marty Robbins was a helluva entertainer. I, as a rule, don't like a lot of goofing around by the artist I've paid dollars to see. But Marty was funny. Not in a "canned jokes" kind of way, but in the way he interacted with his audience. He was one of the few artists I've seen (and I've seen many) who seemed to actually enjoy performing. Most of those I've seen treat a live performance like a paycheck they're begrudgingly obliged to dance for. (Randy Travis is an exception to that rule.)
This is, by far, not one of my favorite Marty Robbins songs, but heck...it's Marty:
On the other hand, there are a handful of artists I never connected with. I never could quite figure out Conway Twitty. The blue-haired ladies loved Conway. Of course, they also loved Elvis. Maybe when I'm eighty I will grow an appreciation for Conway Twitty. I'm keeping an open mind. I can't put my finger on what it was -- he did have some good songs. And his early recordings with Loretta Lynn were damn good.
I attended a concert in my hometown around 1992 - 1993. It was a three-fer: Vince Gill was the main act, for me at least. Also on the bill was George Jones. And then there was Conway. I'd seen George Jones and Tammy Wynette in 1968 when they were still flirting and hadn't yet left their respective spouses. Strangely, Tammy's then-husband played backup for her on that show. Well, it was country music...
So, after Vince did his set and George did his, I decided it was time to leave. I didn't stay to see Conway. Shortly thereafter, Conway died. I kind of regretted I hadn't hung around long enough to see him perform. I felt a tiny bit guilty, disrespectful.
Conway (nee Harold Jenkins) had his biggest, bestest, hit in 1970. This song defined his career:
Speaking of career-defining songs, I guess 1970 was the year for that. I could recount my attendance at a Loretta Lynn concert...okay, I will.
I was, I will guess, nine years old. My sister was getting married. She'd moved to Fort Worth, Texas, to be near her fiance, who was a Texan. Dad, Mom, my little brother and little sister and I had taken the long car trip from Minnesota to Texas in our trusty Ford Galaxie, the car Dad was so proud of. Amidst all the wedding festivities, we all attended a concert at Panther Hall. Panther Hall was distinctly Texan. Long, long dining tables, where one was seated next to complete strangers. The entree was steak. Just steak. One did not get a choice in the matter. It was steak. Waiters hovered about. Our waiter asked me what kind of dressing I wanted on my salad, and I said, "none". "No salad?" he asked. "No, no dressing.". Yes, I ate my lettuce plain. I did not like foods then. I might have liked toast.
Panther Hall was "dry", or something. One had to bring in their own booze. The waiters would serve "mix", and patrons would mix their own drinks with the whiskey they'd brought in with them.
The featured act was Loretta Lynn and her band. I hazily remember hearing, "You Ain't Woman Enough", but I frankly was too focused on my lettuce to pay much attention. Somebody in our party went up after the concert and got Loretta's autograph. I remarked, upon spying the signed photo that it looked like it said, "Buffalo Lynn". Loretta apparently did not have good handwriting.
In 1970 Loretta released her autobiographical single. I had some issues with the song, such as how she sang "borned" instead of "born". Additionally, the song was rather tedious. It was essentially a recitation of everything that had happened to her in her life, with no chorus. Also, she sang that at night they'd sleep cuz they were "tarred". Regardless, eventually a movie was made of the song and the book that followed, which began my longstanding infatuation with Tommy Lee Jones.
Coal Miner's Daughter:
These songs were not number one hits, but they bear mentioning, because, well, I like these guys...
Jerry Lee Lewis:
Buck Owens and Susan Raye:
Sorry, no live video, but I really, really liked this song...
Del Reeves and Penny DeHaven:
Here's David Houston with Barbara Mandrell, before Barbara became the precursor to Reba McEntire in the desperate claw to become relevant in the world of pop. Barbara Mandrell was so cute then. I wanted to be her:
No one should doubt how iconic and influential this duo was in the late sixties/early seventies. They were the golden fleece all duos yearned to snatch.
Porter and Dolly:
The first time I heard this next song on the radio, on a staticky signal out of Iowa, I fell in love. It was the perfect country song, sung by the best country singer in the world. I didn't know Tom T. Hall had written it, and I was surprised. Tom T. was the Harper Valley PTA guy, the guy who never felt a chorus was necessary to a song. I really, really loved Faron Young, but he was a troubled soul. I talked my dad into driving us up to the State Fair to see Faron in person, and I felt ashamed I'd forced him to make the trip. Faron was possibly drunk; or if not drunk, simply a bad performer. The concert was disillusioning. I didn't know then that Faron had problems and that it took him a while to get a good recording. I only knew the records themselves. I still love him, though. I don't care how many takes he had to do to get it right. I only care that I am in love with Faron's songs.
Sorry (or maybe not sorry) that there is no live performance video of this track:
This post has gone on forever, and it could go on for miles more, because 1970 is perpetually stamped on my brain.
I will end with this....
Lynn Anderson showed up on my adolescent radar by way of Lawrence Welk. My folks watched that ABC show religiously. I was beguiled by Lawrence's accordion player, who I thought was in the navy, because the V that crossed his chest looked like a navy uniform. I hadn't yet begun my accordion lessons, so I apparently thought Myron Floren somehow balanced that behemoth instrument between his hands; an unsuspecting strongman. (Yup, the V was the accordion straps, I, a short while later learned.)
Lynn was from North Dakota -- Grand Forks, to be exact -- just like me! In truth, she was born in North Dakota, but raised in California. However, that minuscule connection convinced Lawrence to hire her for his show. Lynn possessed the sweet voice of an angel. Truly. I loved Lynn's voice. Unlike the country fan latecomers, I knew Lynn Anderson before she moved to Columbia, when she was but a wannabe star contracted to Chart Records.
To me, the move to Columbia spelled the downfall of her career, but of course, others would say, what in the world are you talking about? She had her biggest, career-defining hit at Columbia!
Yea, she did; that's true. But tell me; how many times are you willing to listen to this song?
Nevertheless, it was the giant song of 1970. Thank you, Joe South. I guess.
Lynn Anderson:
I'm guessing this has been the longest post I've ever written. I have lots to share about 1970. It was kind of a watershed year for me in many ways; ways I don't necessarily like to recall.
I gave the year short shrift, though. It was pretty awesome -- at least in the annals of country music.