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.

A-

Johnny Angel

April 1962

How unfortunate that since my return to this project, several songs in a row have been so mediocre. It makes for a rather limp restart, but rules are rules, and I'm doing the songs in order. The next one is by Shelley Fabares (rhymes with "cabaret"), another lame one-hit wonder.



One interesting thing to note about these songs is the demographic groups that were responsible for pushing them to the top. Someone like Connie Francis probably appealed to younger people, but also had a strong popularity among the adult age groups—I think it was this breadth of target audience that allowed her to generate such a massive number of hits. Think of the most successful acts of the recording era, the likes of Elvis, the Beatles, Madonna, Michael Jackson. All of them had an appeal that attracted teenagers and adults alike. (Notably, the over-40 section of the population, although a huge demographic group, is largely not a concern of the artists that I am covering.)

Shelley Fabares, on the other hand, had a much more limited appeal—"Johnny Angel" is clearly designed for teenyboppers only. The song's lyrics express a sentiment that only a middle or high schooler could possibly sympathize with: "Johnny Angel, how I love him, he's got something that I can't resist / But he doesn't even know that I exist." Few mature people would identify with the idea of falling in love with someone you don't even know, but this is of course a huge phenomenon among the newly pubescent—who didn't have a crush or two in their younger years?

And indeed, the singer herself was only 18 when this song was popular. Probably a little past the age of most of her fans, but closer than most. But anyway, it's not like teenyboppers are some obscure, niche group. They were, and are, an enormous and influential section of the consumer base of popular music, for better or for worse. They were able to get Shelley Fabares to the top of the chart, but they couldn't keep her there. Of her few other attempts, the only one that even made a blip on the radar was a sequel to "Johnny Angel," released a few months later, called "Johnny Loves Me." Johnny may have finally loved her, but her fans gave her up.

D+

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+
 

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

December 1961–January 1962

The Evolution of a Song

Here's a tune called "Mbube" by the Zulu South African singer Solomon Linda. In the 40s, it was a hit among black audiences in that country.

Sound familiar? That's because you (and I both) know it in a pretty different version. But I must say I was pretty taken with this old song when I first heard it just now. I can't be sure how much of the lyrics are actually in the Zulu language and how much are just nonsense (I'm out of practice in African linguistics), but it doesn't really matter; the song is infectious, due in no small part to the underlying "wimoweh" chant. Apparently, Pete Seeger felt the same way when he heard it—he recorded an adapted version with his group, The Weavers, and it became a top ten hit in the United States in the 50s. Seeger and co. were known for adapting folk songs, but mostly those of American origin. A tune from another culture wasn't too far of a leap, though, and this one fit right in with their repertoire, under the name (appropriately) "Wimoweh."

It sounds pretty silly, these white college boys imitating an African chant. But it's good fun, and they seem to be just having a whale of a time. Obviously, whatever meaning the original lyrics may have had is lost, but nobody hearing it is going to be able to tell the difference.

But it wasn't until 1961, the present year in our chronology, that the song was transformed into its most well-known form, and a huge sensation. A new arrangement was commissioned by the RCA company, and, among other things, the most crucial component was added—the lyrics. The group hired to perform the song was the unknown doo-wop group The Tokens, who took on the task with relish.

I'm not going to lie—I'm a little torn on this one. As in the Weavers' version, the affectation of African chant is extremely silly, and borders on parody. I could understand if someone were offended by this. But I can't help but enjoy the song. It's just really good—totally unique in the history of pop music, and relentlessly catchy. I don't blame the American public at all for rocketing this one to #1, leaving it at the top spot for 3 weeks.

The song has certainly been adapted plenty of times, too. Among the most successful versions is a later 1972 top-ten by the singer Robert John; however, in my view, it isn't different enough from the more famous version to warrant much attention. Simply put, the Tokens did it better.

A much more interesting cover appeared in 1982, by the British group Tight Fit. A delightfully 80s backbeat turns the song from a clever novelty to a propulsive dance track. The record was huge in the United Kingdom, hitting #1 there (but not charting at all in the States).

Maybe it's because it's closer to the age I grew up in, but that might actually be my favorite version of the song. It's either that or the original Solomon Linda version—they are so different that it seems useless to evaluate them against each other. This entry was one of the more fun ones to write recently, since the song has such a long and curious history; also helpful is the fact that it's just a plain good song, so I didn't mind listening to so many different interpretations of it. The rating, of course, is only for the Tokens version, the very reason why I'm writing about this in the first place.

B+