Sheila

September 1962

Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue" is one of those songs. You know? It's totally iconic, everybody's heard it a million times, and to us, it's one of the defining rock and roll songs of the 50s. And probably rightly so. It's a terrific song, simply written but with a fresh sound—the drummer's patter-patter rhythm on the toms, together with Holly's charming vocal eccentricities, make it really stand out from the pack of tired oldies.



In his short career, Buddy Holly cast a wide influence on many singers and performers. But "Peggy Sue" also cast a very specific influence on a guy named Tommy Roe, who is the singer of "Sheila," our #1 hit for today. Wikipedia states simply of "Sheila" that "the song is similar to Buddy Holly's 'Peggy Sue.'" Uh, yeah, you're not kidding. In fact, it's about as clear cut a rip-off as you'll find. Everything that made the former song stand out—the aforementioned drum beat and even Holly's weird singing style—are copied without shame. The subject matter and title—simply a woman's name—makes the connection even clearer.



Is this such a bad thing? Today's lawsuit-driven culture would seem to think so. Intellectual property is serious business, and people get sued for a lot of money for infringements on it, real or perceived. But a century or more ago, people would probably disagree. In fact, the very idea that when you write a piece of music, it's yours and yours alone; well, it's a fairly new concept in the grand scheme. Folk and blues singers of the early century would travel the country, collecting songs and adding them to their repertoires. Where do you think they got those songs from? From our modern perspective, we'd probably say they were stealing those songs from other singers. But from their perspective, things were different. Once a song or a piece of music was created, it belonged to everybody. A singer was free to make his own changes to a pre-existing song, and present it anew.

The concept goes way back. European classical composers constantly aped each other, and there were no hard feelings, to my knowledge. Mozart wrote a set of string quartets that sounded so much like those of his contemporary Haydn, that they are known as the "Haydn quartets." And yet, the two knew each other and were quite friendly in a professional capacity. Austrian law students do not study the historical case of Haydn v. Mozart.

But somehow this seems different, and I can't put my finger on why. Perhaps it's because our pop musicians are now superstars, with wealth and fame beyond anything Haydn or Mozart could have imagined. Maybe that is the reason we expect some degree of originality from them. Or maybe it's because the culture of lawsuits has affected our perception of what is ethical or appropriate in the performance of music.

So anyway, I can't really hear "Sheila" without comparing it to its forebear—once you know the relation between the two songs, you can't unknow it. And it's pretty clear which one stands the test of time.

C+

Roses Are Red (My Love)

July–August 1962

 As I did with Connie Francis, I am going to further expose my naiveté with this post. When I saw the name Bobby Vinton come up on the list, I thought, well, this sounds like another one of those one-hit wonders, like Joey Dee or something. Turns out I was wrong; this guy was very successful throughout the 60s, and this song is the first of four times he was able to top the charts. Shows what I know. This was not only his first #1, but his first hit—he was unknown before this song came out.



This reminds me a bit of a previous song I've covered, "Little Star;" both rely on a trite, familiar rhyme for the chorus, and the song depends on the irony of hearing those lyrics in a pop song context. However, "Roses Are Red" is clearly the better song of the two.

It was not uncommon in these days to tell a narrative story of two star-crossed lovers in a pop song like this. Remember the one where the girl got hit by a train at the end? This one's less violent, but it's the same idea. In this one, the high school sweethearts grow apart, and eventually live their separate lives, but they still retain some sort of wistful sentiment towards each other.

Ho-hum. I can't say I'm looking forward to the rest of this guy's #1s (although one of them is a much more well-known song). I think it's a little funny the way he says "gawd" like a televangelist.

C

Stranger on the Shore

May 1962

Including this one, we've now seen six instrumental tracks on this list so far—can't really call them songs, since nothing's being sung. While it's cool that instrumental music had chart-topping power in those days (it doesn't anymore), only the two from the 50s were any good at all. Acker Bilk's "Stranger on the Shore" marks the fourth instrumental in a row that falls into that sickeningly safe genre that we call "easy listening."



Considering all that, this one really isn't so bad. Behind the sappy string arrangement there does lie a rather nice little tune. Bilk, a British clarinetist, has a pretty unusual approach to the instrument, playing deep tones with a huge vibrato. The song is a little light on substance, though.

To me, this kind of thing sounds like the inevitable conclusion of the "cool" jazz movement, pioneered by, among others, Miles Davis (who quickly abandoned it). Jazz, an incredibly popular genre back in the swing days, had become cerebral and difficult in the 40s, as musicians like Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk eschewed danceability in favor of virtuosic streams of consciousness. In that decade, the music gained an intense following and respect among musicians and serious music listeners, but the masses weren't interested in such complex expression. Cool jazz tried to change that by slowing down the tempos and emphasizing catchy melodies, and while it wasn't necessarily a bad thing at first, it ultimately led to the sort of thing Bilk is doing here. The new, trendy components of cool jazz are here, but the jazz part isn't. It has been lost in the pursuit of accessibility.

If you were to try find the one thing that "killed" jazz, you'd be wrong to point the finger at something like this. The music continued to be vital, and some of its best and most adventurous material was produced in the decade still to come. Think of "Stranger on the Shore" and its ilk as a misguided offshoot. I can't call it good music, but it's not outright offensive like Bert Kaempfert's or Lawrence Welk's contributions. Meh.

C

Don't Break the Heart That Loves You

March 1962

And so at last we return to Connie Francis, the once-tremendous and now-mostly-forgotten star. This is her third (and last) number-one hit.



The song is carried by a similar method of Francis harmonizing with herself via double-tracking that we found with her previous entry, "My Heart Has a Mind of Its Own." It's also characterized by a similar mid-paced, slightly shuffling, very white-bread sort of rhythm that hasn't aged well at all. She reminds me of Patsy Cline, only not as good. Cline was too country to ever make it to number one, but Francis had that magic formula of pop crossover that rocketed her to mega-stardom. But now who has the greater legacy? Sure, Francis had a pretty decent singing voice, but too much of her music starts to get tiresome. Go ahead, see how many Connie Francis songs you can make it through in a row:

The 43-Minute Francis Test

The above is a chronological playlist of all of the singer's top-ten hits, an impressive 16 of them from 1957–1962. That's a huge number; I don't believe any artist I've covered yet has had that many, excepting Elvis. Perhaps I've given short shrift to her five years of massive success; but a short five years was all she had in her. Maybe it's because these songs are so damn dreary, one after the other. The exception that proves the rule is "Lipstick on Your Collar," which actually threatens to be danceable.

I feel like I should have more to say about someone who hit the number-one spot three times, but I just don't. This is not music that inspires me to great heights of writing. I am having trouble conveying the immensity of her popularity while not really being all that enthusiastic about her.

So if you only take one thing away from this, it should be the spot at 2:09 in the video: "Hhhhhhi don't know what I'd do..."

C
 

Hey! Baby

March 1962

Dear reader, you may have noticed that it's been over a year since my last update. I never intended to abandon this completely, but between work and grad school, I have been just too busy to maintain a project like this. However, having recently completed my master's, I feel suddenly freed up, and I'd like to I get this thing going again.

There is also a good reason that this particular song by Bruce Channel (pronounced like "Chanel") was the one that acted as the catalyst for my extended hiatus. Well, listen for yourself:



What can I possibly say about this song? It's... okay. It's a pretty safe, easy rock and roll one-hit wonder from the early 60s. The most profound statement I can make about it is that it gives us a glimpse of a time when white people hadn't really gotten the hang of rock music yet.

You see? Such are the troubles I face. But there is a lot more interesting stuff coming up! I promise.

C+
 

Peppermint Twist

January–February 1962

Most of January is moot to us since it's taken up both by the Tokens hit carrying over from last year; and Chubby Checker's "The Twist," which hit #1 again on a second chart run (the only song to ever do this). When will the Twist die? It's pretty wild that a song could have such staying power to top the chart twice, almost 2 years apart.

And of course, even though we're finally done with Chubby Checker, we're not done with the Twist. The song spawned countless imitators, and it was inevitable that one of them would crop up on our list—and here it is. It's called "Peppermint Twist," and it's performed by Joey Dee and the Starliters. (Technically, it's listed as "Peppermint Twist—Part 1;" the flip side of the record is a rarely heard instrumental "Part 2" of the song.)

That's Mr. Dee on the left—the one with the huge head (hilariously, a good portion of the Youtube comments center around this aspect of his anatomy). One thing I notice is that choreographed dancing in pop music was much rougher and less tightened than it would become in the next few decades. They don't seem to be fully synchronized with each other. Watch a Backstreet Boys performance and you'll see what I mean. Aside from that, I'd say they get some kudos for being a racially desegregated musical group in 1962, although the blacks are mostly relegated to the back (or even offstage—where's the saxophone player?).

But let's talk about the song. Pretty bland, eh? I definitely got nothing against the Twist—I rated the original version as one of the best entries of 1960—but there's a serious lack of originality here. Also, compared to Chubby Checker's enthusiastic rendition, this seems downright lackadaisical, both in terms of performance (they don't seem all that excited about it) and production (the infectious "whomp" of the original is totally absent). But, it apparently worked well enough to hit #1 for 3 weeks, no small feat.

And did you notice those last 30 seconds or so? Sound familiar? That's right, it's the coda lifted right out of the Isley Brothers' "Shout." I think this kind of thing was seen as more permissible in those days. Today you'd never get away with something like that—you'd get sued to high heaven.

Now, if you were a totally unoriginal group with this hit song, what would you do for a follow-up single? Not unpredictably, their next (and last big) hit was none other than a cover of "Shout," which hit the top ten later the same year.

It doesn't even seem fair to compare this to the more famous version. The Isleys' fiery performance threatens to bring the house down; Joey Dee and the Starliters attempt to drum up some excitement by playing the song even faster than the original, but it fails.

One more thing for your amusement: Joey Dee's official website, which looks like it hasn't been updated since 1995, is a rather hilarious thing. Play the video on the front page for the full experience.

C-

Big Bad John

November–December 1961

Unless you're old enough to remember this song, you probably identify Jimmy Dean not with country music, but with this:

But in fact Dean, who died last summer, was a very successful country singer, and "Big Bad John" was his breakthrough hit, as well as one of the most popular songs of the year, holding an impressive 5 weeks at #1. It tells the story of the eponymous John, who it turns out isn't really "bad" at all, although he is indeed big; he uses his legendary strength to rescue a group of trapped miners, only to be killed himself when the mine collapses. It plays as a sort of American "tall-tale" story, not unlike Paul Bunyan or John Henry.

It is, in fact, a "talking song," a genre which I don't believe we have encountered yet in this project. We've discussed the talking verse in "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" but this is sort of a separate category. Country and folk music have their roots in storytelling, and this kind of song does that in the most direct way: by simply telling the story (in verse, of course). Dean's voice is appropriately deep and grave for the tale, although to modern ears, the whole thing seems hopelessly dated.

One approach to the talking song which has survived better, I think, is infusing it with comedy, as Bob Dylan was wont to do, as in this very amusing early performance:

This is rooted in the same folk tradition as "Big Bad John" – Dylan's near-worship of Woody Guthrie is well documented – but Dylan's unwillingness to take himself seriously is what gives it its real charm and staying power. Dean's approach, while somewhat convincing, is too plain to have any real value besides historical curiosity. Perhaps the talking song will make a comeback someday, but it doesn't seem likely, in the near future, anyway.

Jimmy Dean continued to have success into the 70s in the country charts, but in terms of crossover appeal, he only had this song and a nationalistic 1962 top-ten "PT-109." I wonder if his sausages are any good?

C+

My Heart Has a Mind of Its Own

September–October 1960

Connie Francis was a big deal in 1960, with two songs topping the chart and two more in the top ten. In a way, she sort of typifies this sort of pop-country style that was popular at the time. I'd say this one is a better song than "Everybody's Somebody's Fool" from the summer.

I like those vaguely Mexican-sounding trumpets (see also: "Ring of Fire"). Notice that the harmonized vocals are, in fact, Connie Francis and Connie Francis, as opposed to the Everly Brothers who were two different people (or so they claimed). Obviously this would be impossible in a live performance – she'd need a backup singer, or else just sing the main melody line without the backup, which would change the character of the song. Also, on the subject of the Everlys – contrasting a song like "Cathy's Clown" with this one just doesn't seem fair. Connie's harmonies sound totally flat and by-the-book in comparison.

But hey, it's not a bad song at all. It's one of many songs which anthropomorphize the singer's heart, something I've always found a little strange when you think about it. I'd say it's a cliché, but this tune sort of gets around that by just going ahead and stating it directly - my heart has a mind of its own. There you have it. It's slightly meta.

Otherwise, well... not the most terrificly exciting song. Ergo, I don't have much to say about it. Oh welps!

C+

Everybody's Somebody's Fool

June–July 1960

Who was the top charting female singer of the 50s and 60s? If Wikipedia is to be believed, it's Connie Francis, whom I've never heard of before in my life. So much for posterity! Neither did I recognize her first #1 single, "Everybody's Somebody's Fool."

Assessment: average pap. I guess there's a reason someone from my generation has heard of the Everly Brothers, but not Francis. Also, the song's title declaration doesn't strike me as, well, true. Really? Everybody? "There is no exception to the rule," she sings. I for one don't think I'm somebody's fool. Not currently, at least. Unless there's someone out there that I don't know of, claiming me as her fool, in which case I'd appreciate it if she'd leave me alone.

In case you were wondering what the song sounds like in German, here it is. It seems to have been pretty common in the 50s and 60s (and earlier? I don't know) for a pop singer to record a hit song in two or more languages. Even the Beatles sang a couple of their early hits in German. It makes sense from a business perspective, and it's not clear to me why this isn't done anymore. Here in China, English-language pop music is ubiquitous – the language barrier doesn't seem to dampen its appeal. In fact, many Chinese-language songs have a line of English in the chorus, as the main "hook" of the song. And this song, which is currently a smash hit here, is half Korean, half English – which hasn't stopped it from being a ringtone on about 5 billion Chinese cell phones.

It's counterintuitive that non-Chinese songs could become so popular here, especially since karaoke is one of the defining features of Chinese (and East/Southeast Asian) pop culture. Hang out at a KTV bar and you'll probably hear someone croaking out "Hey Jude" or "My Heart Will Go On," even if they have no idea what the lyrics mean (or how to properly pronounce them).

Of course, the situation in 60s Europe was vastly different from modern China. No Western music company would bother translating a song for the Chinese market, because it's almost impossible to make money with music here, due to a lack of intellectual property rights. And really, music piracy plagues record companies everywhere, even if it's to a lesser extent than in China. The future of the music business is pretty uncertain in this day and age. But in the days of "Everybody's Somebody's Fool," with no downloading or pirating, you had to actually buy a record to hear a song. So it made perfect sense to produce a version of a popular hit that was suitable for a foreign market. But what about the time between the 60s and the computer age – let's say the 80s? Why didn't Michael Jackson record multilingual versions of "Billie Jean"? Maybe there are examples of translated pop music that I'm overlooking. If so, I'd like to hear about them. And no, I'm not talking about "Mr. Roboto."

C-

Teen Angel

February 1960

Our next tragic love ballad is a one-hit wonder by Mark Dinning that took the #1 spot for 2 weeks.

The first two months of #1 singles in 1960 have got to be the most morbid in the entire timeline. First, a ranchero gets tangled up in a deadly love affair in Mexico. Then two American Indian lovers are swept away together by a raging river. Now, it's the most realistic one yet: it involves a high school class ring, a train, and two teenage sweethearts just like you, kids! (Never mind that Dinning was 26 when he recorded the track.)

The song was allegedly controversial at the time, and that's understandable, especially in the socially conservative climate of 50 years ago. Not only does it feature a 16-year-old girl getting hit by a train, but the lyrics are fairly direct. It doesn't hide behind ambiguous hinting – we witness the girl's death and then we see the ring clutched in her cold, dead fingers. (Okay, I added the "cold, dead" part, but still.) I myself am mildly offended by the song, not because of its violence, but because of the stupidity it promotes. Running back into a car that's about to get hit by a train? Really? Just for a ring? She deserved everything she got, I say.

Tragedy has been popular ever since drama has existed, and musical tragedy has been around ever since opera existed. The first fully surviving opera (or at least the first well-known one) is Claudio Monteverdi's L'Orfeo from 1607. It tells the Ancient Greek tale of Orpheus, who followed his dead lover into the underworld and successfully bargained with Hades himself, only to lose her again forever in an act of similar stupidity. Fast forward to the 2oth century, and what are the most popular operas? The death-filled tragedies of Puccini. In the world of popular music, such themes were clearly common as well.

Quick, name a movie where nobody dies. Not a comedy, or a kids movie. But even there you'll find deaths-a-plenty. People love reenacting death. It, along with its partner, love, are the cornerstones of drama. Story-songs are out of vogue these days, so teen tragedies seem to be a thing of the past. But given our human race's fixation on the subject of dying, I fully expect the genre to strike again. It's impossible to predict what form it will take, but you heard it here first.

C

Mr. Blue

November 1959

"Mack the Knife"'s 9 weeks at the top were not consecutive. Its run was interrupted for one week by another hit by the Fleetwoods, whom you'll know if you've been following this blog. "Mr. Blue" was not as popular as their April hit, but (imo) it's a better song.

I think most would agree that the Fleetwoods' music has not aged well. I was trying to think what it is about this music that's so, I dunno, lame. It's a corny love ballad, but that doesn't disqualify it per se – so is "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," and that's held up a lot better.

Well here's what I think: it's just too quiet. It's hard to put passion into a song when you aren't singing any louder than you'd normally speak. But this isn't something that's limited to the 50s – think of Nick Drake, or Elliott Smith, both of whom are very respected by many people but just aren't my bag of beans, for this very reason.

Maybe my aversion to this singing style stems from my feeling that it's unnatural, in a way. Think about it – it's a phenomenon that could only happen in the recording age. If the Fleetwoods didn't have microphones, they wouldn't be able to sing for an audience larger than a small room, and so they could never have become well-known. Again, this is probably a personal thing, but I love a singer who can really belt, and I quickly lose patience with a singer who can't. Of course, some straddle a comfortable middle ground – one of my favorite singers is Joni Mitchell, who neither bellows nor mumbles – but as a rule of thumb, I'm more drawn to the Mick Jaggers and Roger Daltreys of the world. In comparison, "Mr. Blue" doesn't really cut the mustard.

This reminds me of another recording-era singing phenomenon – and I can't believe I'm about to make this comparison – death growling. In reality (like the Fleetwoods) it's only about as loud as a speaking voice, and so the monstrous roar is an effect that can only be achieved by holding a microphone close to one's mouth. Of course, those that know me know that I am in the minority of people that thinks this sounds really awesome. But why my acceptance of this when I discount so many other singers for it? Well, here it produces the illusion of loudness – the fundamental difference. And like good special effects in a movie, it's a strong enough illusion for me to temporarily forgo my knowledge that it isn't "real."

Thankfully (for the purposes of this blog), the Fleetwoods never had another #1 hit. So let's forge onward!

C+

Lonely Boy

July–August 1959

Paul Anka (a Canuck, as my Canadian colleague dutifully reminded me) had his only #1 hit with "Lonely Boy," which topped the chart for four weeks. I guess that makes it his biggest hit, although he had a smash hit with "Diana" a couple years earlier – before the inception of the Hot 100 chart, and this blog. But for the purposes of this blog, this is the one that matters most:

It's similar to "Venus," #1 a few months earlier, in that it's a love song, but not for any specific girl. Rather, it's a general call (to the heavens?) for "someone to love." I guess it's not too uncommon a theme in popular music – I'm reminded of Queen's 1976 "Somebody to Love" – but it's just a little funny that two songs like this were huge hits in such close succession. I guess a lot of people in the late 50s, uh, really wanted a girlfriend? I don't know.

And say, remember when pop singers wrote their own songs? Or at least some of them did. Anka was a pretty talented songwriter – he composed a number of successful songs for himself, as well as for other singers. I'll admit though, "Lonely Boy" doesn't really do it for me. Harmonically, it consists of a whopping 2 chords, which no amount of strings and backing singers could save from repetitiveness. But hey, better songs have been written on only 1 chord (Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" comes to mind). It's a funny thing about simple songs – they can be powerful and pithy, or trite and bland, and it's a fine line. It's just that there isn't really anything else about this song that stands out. It's kind of boring, and Anka is more shouting it than singing it.

But, credit where credit's due – Anka also gave us the far more awesome "She's a Lady," made famous by Tom Jones in the early 70s. And speak of the devil! Except for the bridge and the occasional embellishment, the song is built around, yes, 2 chords. Not the same 2, but what is it that makes this song so much better? Well, I don't think anyone would deny that it's a far better vocal performance (sorry Paul). And here, the simplicity of the song comes off as very direct, almost sexual. The 2 chords of "Lonely Boy," on the other hand, sleepily rock back and forth until the song finally fades out, which apparently worked just fine for listeners of 1959. But hey, if nothing else, here's a guy who was able to adapt to the changing times.

C

Come Softly to Me

April–May 1959

The singing trio Two Girls and a Guy recorded a pleasant little number called "Come Softly to Me" – by the time the song was released, they had changed their name to the Fleetwoods, and the song became #1 for four weeks, their first and biggest hit.

You don't really hear pop music anymore like this – where the music's entire appeal is in the vocal arrangement for a small group of singers. (Or do you? Let me know if you think of something.) There are no frills whatsoever, and the pleasure that the Americans of 1959 derived from hearing the song is derived from hearing a few voices sing a nice tune, and harmonize with each other. The instrumental arrangement is sparse, and the singers don't have much personality. The success of the song rides almost completely on the notes put down on paper, as opposed to many pop songs which have passionate performances, or unique production techniques. Any vocal trio could have sung this song and it would have turned out more or less the same.

It reminds me of – bear with me – classical music. Schubert's fifth symphony will sound basically the same no matter which orchestra is playing it, under which conductor (assuming a competent performance). Obviously some performances/recordings are more passionate or inspired than others, but the beauty of the symphony lies largely in the written notes. As a counterexample, the Rolling Stones' "Symphony," er, "Sympathy for the Devil" sounds lousy when it's played by anybody but the Stones, as proved by any number of useless cover versions. The power of the song lies not in the written notes, but in the hugely inspired performance thereof.

Clearly these are two extremes, and lots of music falls in between. I purposely chose something from the Classical (late 18th to early 19th c.) period because of the music's reserved nature. Cognoscenti may scoff, but I would say that performances of Haydn and Mozart don't vary as greatly as performances of, say, Stravinsky. The 20th century modernist's music is much more dynamic and varied, so various interpretations could be quite different, while still playing the same notes on the page. On the other side, we have a group like the Beach Boys – if, in a parallel universe, a different five guys had played and sung the exact same notes and the exact same words, it's likely that their story would have worked out pretty much the same. Indeed, the band's lineup changed quite a bit, even in the 60s – did you notice? Sure, they were greatly talented performers, but the greatest aspect of their music is in the masterful writing of Brian Wilson.

Okay, okay... back to "Come Softly to Me." To me, this is firmly on the Schubert side of the fence. The music shares almost nothing else with that of the great classical master, and its similarity is pretty far under the surface, but it's there. Let's go back to our parallel universe – a different two girls and a guy had the exact same idea, at the exact same time, and recorded the same song. Would it have been a hit? Methinks so.

C+

Little Star

August 1958

Domenico Modugno's reign lasted for over a month, but it was briefly interrupted by the white doo-wop one-hit wonders The Elegants, whose "Little Star" was #1 for the last week of August.

Well, what can I say about this one. It says a lot about the atmosphere at this time in America that for a week, more people bought this schlocky thing than any other record. Now, gone are the days when people will take you seriously for writing a song unironically based on a nursery rhyme.

Sorry guys, I really don't have anything to say about this song. It's not very good - it's almost a parody of its own genre. Gotta love those matching plaid suits, though. And look at the mug on that kid on the left! Justin Timberlake he ain't.

C-

Nel blu dipinto di blu (Volare)

August–September 1958

As hard as it is to imagine a non-English language song becoming a huge hit today, Italian singer (and apparently, songwriter) Domenico Modugno had a #1 hit for 5 weeks with "Volare," as it was popularly called.



It's such a time capsule - his greased-back hair, his suit and bowtie, and the corny jazz orchestra playing behind him. It's not a bad song, I guess - the chorus is pretty catchy even though I don't know what he's singing about. I guess it doesn't really matter ("volare" means "to fly").

I recently saw The Godfather again, and I can't help but be reminded of the character Johnny Fontane, the pop singer of the Corleone family whose songs sound more or less like this one. The same crooning style, the same swingin' jazz accompaniment. In the film, Johnny gets the leading role in a big Hollywood movie after the producer wakes up one night with the severed head of his prize stallion under the covers. It's a bit of dramatic flair from Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola, but you gotta wonder. You gotta wonder.

Anyway, teen idol Bobby Rydell hit the top ten with his English-language version in 1960, two summers later. It's given a more "rock" treatment, but somehow it ends up being campier than the original.

C+