He's a Rebel

November 1962

I'm realizing more and more that in the early 60s, the girl group genre was truly at the forefront of advancing pop/rock music as an art form. For whatever reason, it seems the best songwriters and producers in the industry were working with these groups—the relatively faceless, interchangeable singers themselves had little personality of their own, but were skilled and adaptable enough to carry these songs. This hit by the Crystals is a great example of just how far this music had come.



The production here is just pure class through and through. Phil Spector's signature sound could make any ol' song sound great—rich, full, pseudo-orchestral. But this isn't just any ol' song, either. From a pure songwriting perspective, this is just a terrifically composed pop song—the chord changes are often unexpected and the melody is slightly tricky, but it all works and sounds totally natural.

I think this kind of thing isn't usually considered "rock," but when you think about it, it basically is. It has a much more lavish production than most rock music of the day, but that rock drum beat is there, unmistakable. And looking at the broader picture, the quality and inventiveness of this, and other contemporary girl-group songs, was certainly very influential on the British rock groups that would soon rise to fame. The very notion that one could write a pop/rock song that was not only catchy, but sophisticated—that idea itself is probably not much older than this very song. I'm sure a young Lennon and McCartney were listening closely, and when their turn came, great as they were, they were standing on the shoulders of giants.

We won't encounter them again on this blog, but the following year, the Crystals released two more top tens, "Da Doo Ron Ron" and "Then He Kissed Me"—both Spector productions, and great songs in their own right—but for my money I'll take "He's a Rebel," in my opinion one of the finest songs in a genre crowded with competition.

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Monster Mash

October 1962

Mercifully, after the first year of the Hot 100 chart, Christmas songs were deemed ineligible and they were relegated to their own, separate chart. However, a Halloween song is still fair game.



The only hit by novelty act Bobby "Boris" Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers has been the victim of overexposure throughout the years, but man, when's the last time you sat and really listened to this song? It's hilarious. I don't think many people would call Bobby Pickett versatile or prolific, but it's clear he's spent a lot of time honing this shtick, and it works—his ridiculous puns and over-the-top delivery make me laugh.

It's important, I think, to acknowledge that "Monster Mash" was campy even in 1962. The lyrics are all in loving reference to the golden age of the big studio monster movies, which was arguably kicked off in 1931 with Dracula and had more or less run its course by the end of the 50s; so Pickett was definitely appealing to nostalgia here. It's easy to understand why people remember these films so fondly, and they still have a cult following even today. They were not exactly advancing the art of cinema (with a few exceptions—the first two Frankenstein films being oft-cited critics' favorites), but there is an irresistible charm about these hulking beasts, created with elaborate costumes and makeup.

So even though I've shown a general distaste for novelty hits on this blog in the past, I gotta say this song is pretty charming. It embraces the innate silliness of one of the curiouser American film genres, and I was getting sick of love songs anyway.

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The Loco-Motion

August 1962

I'm not really sure how to "do the locomotion," but to be honest, it doesn't really matter. Thanks to songwriters Carole King and Gerry Goffin, a singer named Little Eva achieved her 15 minutes of fame, and America had another dance craze on its hands.



This is one of those songs that I heard tons of times growing up, since it was a staple of oldies radio (it's amazing how many of these songs aren't, considering their former popularity). It's a super catchy and very fun song, quite simple, and helped along by a stomping backbeat that isn't too far from the one in "The Twist." This is the Carole King most people don't think of when they hear her name. In fact, the song has such an enduring appeal that it has reached the top ten in three different decades, performed by three different artists. I'll talk about the cover versions in another post, since one of them reached, you guessed it... number one! (I'll give you a hint who sings it—it starts with "G,"and ends with "rand Funk Railroad.")

"The Locomotion" was Little Eva's only big hit, and the rest of her career is not really worth mentioning. But there is something else related to her that is notorious, and I can't pass up discussing it here. Eva apparently provided the inspiration for another lesser-known King/Goffin song, performed by a different group, the Crystals (whom we will get to soon enough on this blog). The story goes that King and Goffin had somewhat of a personal relationship with Eva. When they saw her one day, she had been battered by her boyfriend, and was badly bruised. When, instead of being angry, she expressed feelings of forgiveness and devotion to him, the songwriters were inspired to write what is, in my opinion, one of the most deeply disturbing pieces of music in popular history.



When Slayer sang about Auschwitz in the 80s, it was with a wry smirk, and an obvious intention to shock. In contrast, "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)" is fascinatingly devoid of any discernible irony whatsoever. It is so unsettling a song that I can hardly believe it actually exists. The pounding, hypnotic rhythm and weird, chanting backup vocals build with the lush orchestration to produce a bleakly dark, almost nightmarish effect. In case you were wondering, Phil Spector is the producer on this; perhaps in retrospect, it's not surprising he was drawn to the song, given his own sordid history.

Lest we think "oh those were different times in the 60s," it's important to note that the single was pulled soon after its release due to public objection. I would imagine it's quite hard these days to find an original 45 of this song, but thanks to the Internet it is immortal.

All that aside, this post is supposed to be about "The Loco-Motion," so—

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Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

August 1962

Neil Sedaka is one of those names I've heard a lot, but I never really had a clear idea of who he was, and I think I've been confusing him with Neil Diamond. But of course I know this song—I just never could put a face to it.



I'm not gonna lie, as corny as it is, I think this is a great song. Sure, this topic has been done a million times—singer begs for S.O. not to leave him—but musically it's totally fresh and likable. The song's selling point is the recurring vocal riff, doubled on guitar throughout the song. It drives the song and gives it a sort of main idea, over which the details are lain. Another thing that strikes me here is the strong echo of the Everly Brothers in those vocal harmonies. And maybe, as a New Yorker myself, there's just something endearing about this Brooklyn Jew. His world is not too far from my own.

Although Howard Greenfield is listed as co-writer for this, and many other of Sedaka's hits, it is my impression that Greenfield was the lyricist, while the music was written by Sedaka; not an uncommon way to organize a songwriting team. They had a number of hits around this period, although I won't bother linking to them since they are, unfortunately, disappointing in comparison. The most notable thing about them is that they seem to be weirdly preoccupied with 16-year-old girls, which was pretty common in songs from around this time, but still a little uncomfortable, being that both songwriters were in their mid 20s.

Anyway, Neil Sedaka is going to disappear from this project until his comeback in the 70s, where he has a couple more entries. Also, in 1975 he released a different version of this very same song, which hit #8, but lost the things that made it good in the first place. I'll stick with the original.

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I Can't Stop Loving You

June 1962

It's no secret that the great American musical traditions are mostly divided along racial lines. Blues, jazz, and (later on) R&B and rock and roll were products of American blacks, descendants of West African slaves—on the other hand, folk and country music were the domain of whites, descendants of European colonialists. Both groups had their own stories to tell, and both created hugely rich musical traditions, to express themselves. But crossover was always relatively rare, and still is—it's at least rare enough that when it happens, it's notable.

Quick, name a black country singer! Time's up. It's okay, I couldn't think of one either. A cursory web search turned up one Charley Pride, who, for about 15 years starting in 1969, produced a staggering string of country hits (but never broke the mainstream top 10—country music, for all its popularity, has never been the dominant popular form, with the exception of a few crossover hits here and there).

And I can't help but think that someone like Charley Pride owes a huge debt to someone we've covered a couple times before during this project: Ray Charles. The great R&B musician, known for popularizing the sounds of gospel and soul that he grew up with, suddenly blindsided the American public in 1962 with a record called Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music. Calling it a "country album" is probably a misnomer—it's filled with blues scales, syncopated rhythms, and jazzy horn sections, not to mention a slick, pop production—but it's country enough to be a noticeably different venture for Charles. But the man himself didn't necessarily consider it such a drastic change. In his own words, "You take country music, you take black music, you got the same goddamn thing exactly."

The record's lead single is the #1 hit in question here, a cover of a 5-year-old country song called "I Can't Stop Loving You."



The song, which tells a familiar story of its subject unable to move past a lost love, was originally written and recorded by Don Gibson, and has been covered by many artists over the years, but most would consider Ray Charles's version the definitive one.

As is often the case with #1 hits, the track is not even all that representative of the album as a whole, or of where Charles was musically at this point in time. But it was the most palatable to the hoi polloi, and so here we are. I'm more partial to the more upbeat numbers, where Charles seems most at home, such as this leadoff track to the album. At any rate, this post was a refreshing departure from the rather long stretch of middling songs I've had to cover lately. It also is the last of the three songs by Ray Charles I'll be covering—his popularity waned as tastes changed gradually throughout the 60s, but he left us with some great stuff.

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Runaround Sue

October 1961

A lot of these old songs that were once huge hits are now almost completely forgotten. But here we've had a few in a row which are still staples of oldies stations. Dion's "Runaround Sue" continues in that category.

And it certainly deserves it – it's a terrific song. After a portentous opening in which Dion declares that the girl he once loved started running around "with every single guy in town" (either it's a very small town or this is some world-class promiscuity), the song launches into a screaming tale of heartbreak and rock and roll vitriol. It's a classic song topic – man has been cheated on and is now very upset – but it's done with such conviction here that it's a resounding success, mostly thanks to Dion's powerful and charismatic singing voice.

Dion's follow-up single, "The Wanderer," was nearly as popular, and I'm sure I'm not the first one to notice the irony in the two songs' messages.

In "Sue," he so eloquently decries his ex for having the very same quality he would later champion in himself. I must admit, there's a certain charm to the sheer bravado that would inspire him to commit such a blatant hypocrisy, even though the song isn't quite the tour de force that the previous one is.

In fact, the more I listen to Dion's various hits, the more I like the guy. He produced a whopping 10 top ten singles between 1959 and 1963, and they are nearly all quite good. For a short list of the best, I'd pick the early charmer "Teenager in Love;" the gloomy, kazoo-featuring "Little Diane;" and the bluesy "Ruby Baby." For a pop singer, he's displayed considerable versatility. Before doing this entry, I'd more or less written him off as a campy 60s relic, and I'm glad I had the chance to change that opinion.

Dion made a moderately successful attempt to reinvent himself as a hippie folk singer in the late 60s. This culminated in "Abraham, Martin and John," a song in remembrance of Lincoln, King, and Kennedy, respectively, which was the last commercial success of his career. What could have easily been trite is actually well done and it comes across as pretty honest. However, my favorite song from this period of Dion is a hilariously misguided cover of Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze." It must be heard to be believed:

That nonsense aside, this entry has been a pleasant surprise. A bunch of these songs are worth knowing, even though "Runaround Sue" remains the biggest success of Dion's career and his defining song.

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Hit the Road Jack

October 1961

And so we return to Ray Charles. His previous chart-topper was a strings-drenched ballad, but here he strikes it big with an upbeat R&B number; the kind that made him who he was. I would say this song should be recognizable to just about anyone, or any American at least.

One thing that I like about Charles's style is that he has a propensity for interacting with his backup singers, rather than the more traditional approach of simply having them, well, back you up. I'm thinking also of his tour de force "What'd I Say," where he banters back and forth with his singers, to create a risqué sexual exchange. Here, Ray is the eponymous "Jack," and it's his backups who are telling him to get the hell out. He can only plead for mercy to this faceless and unforgiving woman – having the part sung by several women instead of only one serves to make Charles seem even more helpless. It's a neat trick, and it makes the short song a fairly effective mini-drama. Ultimately, we can't help but to side with "Jack;" this is clinched when we hear his sly spoken appeals at the very end.

It seems that for every cherished Ray Charles classic, there's a few missteps that haven't lasted quite as well. Take for example "Ruby," which was released around the same time as "Jack," and was top 10 on the R&B charts. It hasn't really stood the test of time. But his other smash success from this year, a brassy instrumental version of "One Mint Julep," is pretty well done in my opinion.

So this post covers a fairly brief portion of Ray Charles's career – that's because we're not quite done with him yet. He'll be back again next year. Until then, "Hit the Road Jack" will do just fine.

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Tossin' and Turnin'

July–August 1961

1961 has had a lot of rock and roll so far. It's a welcome development in my opinion, and the trend continues with this terrific number by Bobby Lewis, which spent a formidable 7 weeks at the top, making it the most successful single of the year.

Who ever thought insomnia could be so much fun? When you think about it, the topic of the song doesn't really fit the tone of it at all. He's so distressed by his lady that he's losing sleep at night; and yet the song itself is a rollicking good time, upbeat, and catchy as sin to boot. But somehow you don't even notice this glaring inconsistency until you slow down to think about it. For whatever reason, it plainly works. I suppose part of the appeal is that it takes a bad experience that practically everyone has had, and makes it sound like a party. How could you resist?

The runaway success of the song is a little strange in retrospect, considering that Lewis almost immediately fell out of the public eye completely. One-hit wonders make it to the weekly #1 spot all the time, but rarely do they score the #1 single of the year. Besides the inevitable, less successful follow-up single ("One Track Mind"), he never made another hit for the rest of his life. The guy is still alive (he's 76), and you've got to wonder what he does with himself. Well, I suppose he can rest easy knowing that he recorded more #1 singles than most of us have. One, to be exact; but boy, was it a good one.

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Quarter to Three

June–July 1961

The story goes that Gary Anderson changed his last name to "U.S. Bonds" so that radio stations might mistake his records for government bond advertisements. Whether or not that's true, he ended up getting some attention anyhow, and he's fondly remembered today as that guy who sang "Quarter to Three."

You've got to love that early rock and roll sound, and I'm always glad to see this kind of thing turn up on our list – it's a welcome relief from some of the schmaltzier things that were around 50 years ago. Bonds and his group stir up an atmosphere of real, genuine excitement and fun, which is something that I think is harder than it appears. Just because the musicians are having fun doesn't mean that feeling will necessarily make it onto the final product, and believe me, I know. There have been times where I've had a blast in some jam session, but then later been disappointed by the recording. It's easy to assume that since those guys up there on the stage are having a great time, it's only natural that their music is so effective; but it takes more than just exuberance to make a great rock and roll performance. You've got to have talent (obviously), but also a group synergy that takes time to hone. Whatever it is, Bonds & co. have got it in spades.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's my impression that Bonds is remembered as a one-hit wonder; although actually he had 4 other top ten hits from 1960-62. The few that followed "Quarter to Three" are disappointing; the formula is the same but the energy is largely absent. However, the year before "Quarter" he broke into the charts with a track called "New Orleans" which I quite like:

It doesn't have the raucous attitude that made his biggest hit so distinctive, but it's a solid early rock song. Unfortunately, the guy doesn't seem to have enough material to make a "Best of Gary U.S. Bonds" record worth it. He actually ended up breaking back into the mainstream in the early 80s with a few singles, one of which nearly broke the top ten. However, they are quite uninteresting and not worth your time. "Quarter to Three," on the other hand, is a classic, and rightly so. I'm happy to have it.

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Running Scared

June 1961

On the surface, Roy Orbison's singing voice sounds kinda like Elvis. It has a similarly confident vibrato, as well as the remarkable ability to sound "deep" even when firmly in the tenor range. His early material sits comfortably in this model, riding on the coattails of Presley's success – indeed, he was signed to Sun Records, the same label as not only Elvis but Carl Perkins as well. His minor early hit "Ooby Dooby" from 1956 is a competent, if not terribly exciting exercise in the genre. Throughout the rest of the 50s, he produced a number of these songs, finally scoring another minor hit in 1959 with "Uptown." It's in a similar boogie-woogie type vein. Understandably, history has mostly forgotten these early singles.

But what Orbison had in store was something entirely different. In his 1960 breakthrough hit, "Only the Lonely," he easily distinguishes himself from the competition by taking his rich, full voice to brave new heights. It's so much more than just a verse-chorus-verse pop song; backed by a string section, it's an elaborate mini-epic, punctuated by orchestra hits and soaring high notes. In the midst of so many banal popular songs of the day, it was purely sensational. Orbison is listed as co-author, along with songwriter Joe Melson – the team would produce a number of his most well-known songs. The songs were finally robust enough to support the full range of Orbison's singing voice.

But wait – this isn't about "Only the Lonely," because that peaked at a mere #2 on the charts. His next two lesser hits were "Blue Angel" and "I'm Hurtin'," which are in a similar vein as his breakthrough, but not quite as strong. Still, they are worth a listen – it's the sound of a struggling artist finally coming into his own.

And then, in 1961, he made it to #1 with "Running Scared," another Melson collaboration. The song is a complete singularity in early 60s popular music, unlike anything else that existed at the time. For one thing, it's flat-out undanceable – the drum beat doesn't even enter until three fourths of the way into the track. Instead, it's a song that tells a complete (albeit short) story. In just over two minutes, we identify with the protagonist, learn about the characters' history, and it all comes rushing together in a brilliant climax. I love when a pop song is brave enough to break all the rules, and yet it still becomes successful against all the odds – and this is a perfect example. It's a fine and dignified first #1 for Roy Orbison, but the story doesn't end here, because he's got another one coming up in a few years.

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Runaway

April–May 1961

A clever little song, this. I heard this a million times on the oldies stations growing up, but I always just knew it as the song where he goes "wah-wah-wah-wah." Spending four weeks at the top, it was a fairly big smash hit.

The most recognizable hook of the song is obviously the falsetto bit in the chorus – this couldn't have been a hit without it. However, as often happens to those who record such hits, Shannon was forever doomed to be that guy who does the falsetto thing. After "Runaway"'s, er, runaway success, he was undeniably goaded into attempting similar hits by his producers. You can't quite call him a one-hit wonder, because he actually had two more top-ten hits in the next few years: "Hats Off to Larry," which is a lame rewrite of "Runaway;" as well as the surprisingly good "Keep Searchin' (We'll Follow the Sun)."

And like so many other of the artists on our list, he has long since faded into obscurity, due to his inability to create more than basically one interesting thing. Oddly, he broke into the Top 40 one last time in 1981 with a terrible cover of "Sea of Love," and after that the world forgot about him. He died less than ten years later at age 55. So it goes.

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Will You Love Me Tomorrow

January–February 1961

How to Ruin a Great Song

An Unscientific Study

Our next song, I hope most people would agree, is a pretty rad song. It's the first of several smash hits by the girl group The Shirelles, and the first #1 by any group of that genre; it remains one of the best. Written by Carole King, it features a great, memorable melody; and lead singer Shirley Owens lends it a cool, confident air, helped in no small part by its distinctive string arrangement. This track will serve as the basis for our analysis:

This song, in particular, is notable for having an insane number of cover versions by all kinds of famous musicians. I have not the patience to listen to all of them, but of the one's I've found, they are uniformly boring (with the unsurprising exception of King's own version from her Tapestry album). There are versions of the song by the likes of Dusty Springfield, Cher, Dionne Warwick, Elton John, Joe Walsh, Neil Diamond, The Bee Gees, and countless others; there's even a hilarious version by a very young Ronnie James Dio. However, this being a blog focused on the most popular of songs, I will examine the 3 covers which made it to the top 40.

1968 - The Four Seasons

This rendition's major offenses are twofold. The first is its annoyingly busy arrangement, featuring violins, surf guitar, organ, a frantic bass guitar, and what sounds like a harpsichord. And it's almost as if the song's producers realized this, because they mixed the vocals way above the instruments, creating the effect of the Four Seasons' voices floating above a horrible, swirling chaos.

The second offense is that the harmony of the song is changed, in a forced attempt to make the version differ from the original. The result is that the song remains totally recognizable, but without the lean, economical punch of the Shirelles' version. For example, the reason that one string hook in the original (you know the one) works so well is because 1) it's the only featured instrument in that particular bar, and 2) it's simple and elegant, blending gracefully with the minimal, carefully selected chord pattern. And this is to say nothing of the song's main vocal melody.

1975 - Morningside Drive

This version is curiously unavailable online, so I have not heard it. However, it is purportedly a disco arrangement of the song. Have we really any reason to believe it doesn't completely suck?

1978 - Dave Mason

Mason, of Traffic fame, recorded this bland-as-beans cover, apparently while simultaneously doing his taxes. He simply does not care in the least about the song; it has a distinct "goin' through the motions" feel. The song suffers from an overly slick, late-70s pop production, and lackadaisical, non-shit-giving performances by everyone involved. Accordingly, this track has been largely banished to a far corner of history.

Conclusion

So what have we learned? The moral of the story is, don't cover a classic, time-honored song. There are very few examples of this ever succeeding in history. Unless you truly think you have some amazing new insight into it, just leave it alone. Your version will inevitably be damned by comparison to the far superior original. We will not still love it tomorrow.

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Are You Lonesome Tonight?

November 1960–January 1961

It's always comforting to see Elvis on our list. His songs (or his hits, at least) are some of the most dependable of this era. He has a seemingly effortless charisma in his performances, and I can totally see how this guy would get so popular. Here's the next in a long line of Elvis hits, "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"

The song dates back to the 20s, but first became popular in 1950 when it was recorded by some guy called Blue Barron. His version charted in the top 40, but it is totally sappy and not worth your time. A couple other singers covered it during the 50s to moderate success, but it wasn't until 1960 that Elvis gave us the definitive version. For me, this is one Elvis's best performances and one of the best examples of his vocal control – his dynamics, his vibrato, his ability to make every note seem perfectly placed. But wait – it only lasts for one verse! Almost half the song is taken up by the "talking" verse that follows.

To our modern ears, the talking verse is one of the most dated aspects of 50s and 60s music. Elvis used this technique pretty often, and I'm afraid his music suffers a bit for it. He couldn't have just come up with a real second verse? Or had his writers do it? The song would be so much better. As it is, it feels incomplete, with only one "real" verse amongst all the padding. Still, while the actual singing lasts, it's terrific.

But my favorite version of the song has got to be a 1969 live performance, where Elvis goofily changes one of the lyrics, which launches him into a fit of uncontrollable laughter which lasts for the rest of the song, while the backing group plays it totally straight. It's hilarious, mostly because his laughter is so infectious. I've always been a big fan of humor in music, and I think it's important for a musician not to take himself too seriously. Here's a guy that understood that.

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Georgia on My Mind

November 1960

Hey! "Mr. Blue" by the Fleetwoods made an appearance in today's New York Times Sunday puzzle, and as a theme answer, no less! I wouldn't have known it if it weren't for this project.

But anyway, Ray Charles.

Charles had been hugely successful for years in the R&B chart – from 1953 to 1959 he had 18 top ten hits on that chart, including four #1s. But it wasn't until 1959's "What'd I Say" that he broke through to the mainstream, and finally scored a top ten on the pop chart. The song, so long that it had to be split into two halves for release on a 45, is sublime. A lengthy instrumental introduction features Charles's explosively virtuosic keyboard playing over a manic rhythm section – we are then treated to one of the most controversial vocal performances ever in popular music. Many fans and critics deplored the song, particularly the ending, for being imitative of sex. Well, they were right, but they would have never guessed that the tune's mixture of gospel ideas with secular lyrical themes would be so influential – "What'd I Say" is often cited as the birth of the genre of soul music.

So how better to follow that success than with a cool, jazzy ballad about the Peach State? The song had been around since 1930, and had been variously covered by just about every jazz group around, but I don't think many people would disagree that Ray Charles's is the definitive version, due to his passionate vocal performance. I guess it makes sense that his first #1 hit would be a sweet, mellow tune rather than his usual, more energetic fare – this kind of thing is more palatable to a mass audience.

Although the cynic in me must point out that it's hard to imagine such a (relatively) challenging melody being so successful today. Or even back then! For example, compare "Georgia" to "Everybody's Somebody's Fool" or "I Want to Be Wanted" (let alone "Poker Face") – it's not immediately whistlable, it's very non-repetitive, and it takes a few listens for the song to really sink in. These are not common features of pop music, where things usually have to be blunt, obvious, and simple to make it big. But hey, sometimes popularity and quality are compatible. This is a terrific song, and I'm glad it's on our list.

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Save the Last Dance for Me

October–November 1960

Once in a while the people know what's good for 'em, and so the same America that made "Mr. Custer" #1 turned around and started buying "Save the Last Dance for Me," a now-classic sung by Ben E. King and the Drifters (many will recognize King as the singer of "Stand by Me").

The story goes that co-writer Doc Pomus was sick with polio and could not dance – the idea for the song came to him when he sat watching his wife dance at a party. And unlike most of these stories, this one seems to be pretty much true. I mean, who knows about when exactly the inspiration came to him, but the basic fact remains that he did have polio and couldn't walk without crutches. So it's kind of sweet. It's a remarkably simple, yet unique concept for a song, when you think about it. You could see it one of two ways – either he's all right with his girl having a good time, because he knows she's really and truly his; or he's a little nervous about his girl having a little too much fun and he's sort of calmly entreating her to remember him at the end of the evening. It works just fine either way.

But on the other hand, it's kind of a strange relationship they have if throughout the evening, multiple men are "holding her tight" and holding her hand "beneath the pale moonlight." I know the times and dancing conventions were different, but there's a definite line between dancing and some of the stuff mentioned in the song. I'm just sayin'.

So to me it's a little odd when a female singer does a cover version of the song from the girl's perspective. It's called "I'll Save the Last Dance for You" and it was a Top 40 hit for the singer Damita Jo a couple months later. It's like saying, "yeah baby, I'm gonna mess around a little bit with some other guys, but you know I still love you."

The song has been a Hot 100 hit for several different artists, including an apocalyptically bad version by the dependably awful Michael Bublé. But the song is enduringly popular because it's really a damn good song – there's no substitute for good songwriting. And I'd say the original Drifters recording is the best, most honest sounding version we've got.

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The Twist

September 1960 & January 1962

Ah, "The Twist" – the biggest dance craze of all time, and the one that arguably had the most lasting impact. Who could forget it? It's so ridiculously simple that it's amazing nobody had thought of it before.

As you probably could have guessed, Chubby Checker didn't invent the Twist – in fact, he wasn't even the first one to have a hit single with the song. That would be Hank Ballard and the Midnighters, whose version is curiously unavailable on Youtube. And people have dated the dance back much farther, back through plantation dances and even farther back to Africa. But what matters is that it exploded into popular culture in 1960, and you could say it never really went away.

After all, the concept of rhythmically "twisting" your hips back and forth, well – isn't that the basic idea behind dancing in nightclubs today? Is it a stretch to say that the Twist permanently changed the way people dance? Moving one's hips seems such a fundamental part of dancing (at least in the popular idiom) that it's hard to believe there was a time when it wasn't done. Look back on dancing footage from before the 60s – people don't swivel their hips unless it's a burlesque show or something. And so I can imagine how it must have felt for this to suddenly become socially acceptable. Liberating, I suppose. This song came along at just the right time – people were ready for it. Any earlier and it might have been dismissed as grotesque. Not that the parents didn't find it objectionable, or at least some of them. Apparently, it was controversial at the time for being overtly sexual. And well, I guess it is. Isn't that the point?

And yes, those are two different dates up there in the title of this post. "The Twist" is, in fact, the only song ever to do this – reach #1 on two separate chart runs. Not to mention the numerous Twist-themed songs Chubby Checker churned out in the following few years – "Let's Twist Again," "Twistin' U.S.A.," "Slow Twistin'," and "Twist It Up" were all charting singles. Even as late as 1964, the Beatles nearly topped the chart with their cover of the Isley Brothers' "Twist and Shout." That's four years later – an eternity!

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I'm Sorry

July–August 1960

Did you know that when Brenda Lee recorded the smash hit "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" in 1958, she was only 13 years old? I must have heard the song millions, nay, billions of times, but I never realized the singer was such a young girl. And so, two years later, she hit #1 with "I'm Sorry," at 15 years old.

As I remember from my high school years, the New York state law demanded that a person be 14 years old before being able to work legally. And even then, there are restrictions on hours until you're 16, I believe. I wonder how it works for child stars such as Lee. Singing, or any kind of performing, is certainly work – unless the laws have changed significantly since 1960, she would have been underage when she was rockin' around the Christmas tree. But even today, we have child actors, models, etc. I have no idea how they dodge the legality of it.

But legality aside, is it right for a child to be a performer so early? Lee supposedly was singing locally for money at age 10. You have to wonder how much of her success was due to her wanting it, and how much was due to her parents wanting it. She clearly was very talented at an early age, and we can only assume she enjoyed singing. So is it categorically different from other kinds of labor?

But anyway, it's a pretty dang good song. Lee's vocal performance is certainly beyond her years. During the "talking" verse (unfortunately, a pretty dated aspect of many songs from this era), her voice is deep and grizzled – it's hard to believe she's only 15. And of course that makes it all the more dramatic when she flips back into the song's hook. It's a convincing song with an unique melody, and I'd dare say it's a classic.

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Cathy's Clown

May–June 1960

Well folks, this is the 29th song so far, and yet it's the first one I would say I was familiar with before I undertook this project (young 'un that I am). Even cultural staples like "Mack the Knife" – I've definitely felt its influence, but I didn't really know the original version. But when I heard oldies stations in the car growing up, this one by the Everly Brothers definitely got a ton of airtime. It's the singing duo's third #1 single, but it's the first (and last) within our time frame.

First off, and I hope you'll agree – it's a terrific song. Foremost are the vocals, with as brilliant a two-part harmony as I can think of. The Everlys' singing was certainly an inspiration to many singers of the day, including a certain Paul and John. And the musical arrangement is great, too – especially those stuttering drums which seem to mimic the protagonist's nervousness. Because really, although he claims he's going to finally break it off with the titular girlfriend, we listeners aren't so sure if he'll really go through with it.

The situation in the song is pretty extreme – her cheating on him is so well-known that people openly laugh at him in the street – but it works because the emotion is believable on a basic level. I'd say most people have had the experience of staying in a relationship longer than they probably should have. With love can come a sense of attachment that's hard to exaggerate. People stay in abusive relationships all the time – everyone else around them can see the problem except themselves. It's easy to forget how powerful that feeling can be, but this song is strong enough to remind us. But in this case, it's not hopeless. He's finally declaring he's had enough. It's a pretty heavy emotion, and furthermore a dynamic one. What I mean is that the change from powerless cuckoldry to freedom feels like it's happening during the course of the song. It's not just a static image of heartbreak, or true love. I think this is why you can listen to the song so many times and it doesn't tire out. And those harmonies!

And here – in case you want the song ruined for you forever, be sure to check out this version.

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El Paso

January 1960

First entry for the 60s, and we're off to a great start. It's "El Paso," written and sung by Marty Robbins, who was a massively popular country musician. He had a whopping 16 #1 singles on the country charts, but only 1 on the pop charts – this gripping story-song.

Man, I just love everything about this song. The archetypal story of love and tragic death, the odd way the rhythm is counted, the Spanish-flavored lead guitar, the lush harmonies. It is surely a classic, although I'd never heard of it before I researched it for this blog.

The story itself is one we've heard a thousand times. The narrator falls in love with a girl (as he tells us quite plainly in the first line), she's stolen away by another suitor, he kills his rival in a duel, and finally he himself is slayed in return – after a chase, of course. The same plot, or a variation of it, has been used so many times in plays, grand operas, ballads, and movies, that it's practically a basic part of our cultural consciousness. And the reason it endures is that it works so well, so often. Here it happens to be in the context of the Western genre, which so often draws upon these basic, primal themes. It's certainly not the first or the last time this story arc would be associated with the American West and Mexico – even Bob Dylan used it in his "Romance in Durango," which I'd bet is a direct tribute to this song. Actually, it just so happens I'm currently in the middle of Cormac McCarthy's "Border" trilogy (I just started the third book), and so these days the Wild West is on my mind more than usual. And it's hard not to see the parallels between those contemporary Western novels and the stories of old that are typified in country songs like "El Paso."

Not to turn this into a personal diary, but I myself am in the midst of a sort of love tragedy, or at least that's how I'd like to think of it – one in which situational and societal circumstances may prove the downfall of a hopeful romance. And in a foreign land, no less! Perhaps that's why I'm especially attracted to this particular song – but probably not. This is the kind of song I think I'd appreciate just about any time. Regardless of my personal situations, I'm always drawn to these sort of grand, sweeping archetypal gestures in art. It's just something about, I dunno, the human spirit or whatever.

My affinity for this song is (was?) apparently shared by the Grateful Dead, who made this song a recurring part of their live sets starting in the late 60s. I haven't really shopped around for different versions, but here's one from 1972. It's no surprise that they liked this song so much – they were students of American folklore as much as they were a psychedelic jam band. But their version of the song is a pretty good example of why I never really got into the Dead – the Spanish guitar in the original is replaced by Jerry Garcia's usual aimless noodling, and the overall feeling and sweep of the song is reduced to their sort of DIY aesthetic that doesn't carry nearly the same weight as the Marty Robbins version. They were a band that certainly had their moments, but I feel there's too much to sift through in each concert recording to get to the good stuff. Although guitarist Bob Weir claims the song was their "most requested number." So what do I know.

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Down Under

January–February 1983

No, Men at Work weren't around in 1959 – they probably would have frightened people. I'm jumping to early '83 when the Australian group took over the world (briefly) with the whimsically patriotic smash hit "Down Under." Why would I do such a thing? Am I not disrupting the order of the cosmos by interrupting the chronology of this blog? Maybe I am. But you may have noticed this song in the news a few days ago, and so I figured it would be timely to cover this song out of order.

A court has recently ruled that, in "Down Under," Men at Work plagiarized a 1934 song called "Kookabura Sits in the Old Gum Tree" by Marion Sinclair (the song has since been bought by a company called Larrikin Music). "Kookabura" is apparently considered somewhat of a national folk song in Australia, and, like "Happy Birthday" in the U.S., most people are probably not aware that it is copyrighted. But nevertheless, somebody does own it, and that person has sued and won. Here's the story from the BBC.

The article has audio clips of both songs, for your comparing convenience. The part in question is the flute refrain that plays in the beginning of the song, and then again after each chorus. It's pretty clear to me that this tune is an intentional reference to "Kookabura," especially given the context of the song – the lyrics are loaded with references to Australian culture, and so here's a subtle musical reference as well. It's actually pretty clever – most people won't even notice it, but those that do notice it will have an "a-ha!" moment.

Intellectual property laws serve a great purpose, which is to protect original ideas. A competitor who isn't allowed to simply copy an idea is now forced to come up with a new one – and thus innovation is encouraged in our society. Compare this to a country like China, where there is practically no enforcement of these laws, much to the dismay of foreign companies who watch helplessly as their products and logos are ripped off ubiquitously. Here, search the web with Gougou, or crack open an ice-cold Laoshan Cola. When it's that easy to copy your competitors, there's no reason to come up with anything new, and there's no progress.

But an unfortunate byproduct of these laws is that they often allow frivolous lawsuits like this one. Is the snippet of melody taken from "Kookabura"? Of course it is. But come on, people. I highly doubt that the song's success would have been any different if the flute refrain had been changed. In fact, this brings up two fundamentally different situations in which an artist uses a piece of another artist's music. The first is what Men at Work are accused of: taking a piece of music and passing it off as your own. The other is what Men at Work actually did: referencing a piece of music. The listener is not meant to think that Men at Work wrote the famous Australian folk song. And there is a chasm of difference between these two things. One is okay, and the other is not okay.

But to me, the most frustrating thing about this case is the remarks made by Colin Hay (a member of Men at Work). From the BBC article:

"It is no surprise that in more than 20 years, no one noticed the reference to Kookaburra... it was inadvertent, naive, unconscious... by the time Men At Work had recorded the song, it had become unrecognisable. It may well be noted, that Marion Sinclair herself never made any claim that we had appropriated any part of her song Kookabura... Apparently Marion Sinclair didn't notice either."

...Huh?

So he's denying the similarity between the two songs? The obvious truth is that the group, along with most of the population of Australia, assumed that the folk song was in the public domain (as it, quite frankly, should be by now). The band referenced it in their song (remember – referenced it) without giving it a second thought, just as you would have no problem referencing "America the Beautiful" or something. In this case, the law is on the wrong side, and I understand why he would have to tell a white lie in court, in his own defense. But come on man, the trial is over. Stand up for yourself.

Anyway, none of this takes away from the fact that it's a great, classic song, and lots of people love it, including myself.

All right, stay tuned. Next it's back to scheduled programming!

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