In the days of yore, before Smartphones and Instagram, as many as 70 children would play heightened games of hide-and-go-seek in my old neighborhood in Wellesley, Massachusetts. Ultimately, those spring and summer afternoons 50 years ago not only framed our childhoods but taught us a myriad of life lessons as time unfolded like shuffling cards.
Originating in Great Britain hundreds of years ago, the childhood game was eventually brought over to the colonies during the 1600’s. By happenstance, each corner of the British Isles formed its own version of hide-and-go-seek, initially called, “All-ee, Outs in Free.” This was a euphemistic call from the person who was “it,” and letting those hiding children, otherwise known as “the outs” that it was now safe to come back to home base.
Even as the game evolved along with the English language, local town criers, most notably in Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, commenced calling out the phrase, “All-Ye, All-Ye,” meaning to beware of the information the crier was about to proclaim to the townspeople. Accordingly, when Irish, Scots, and Welsh immigrants emigrated to the New World and brought their language and traditions with them, “Ollie Ollie In Come Free” became Americanized over time as the password to use to reconvene in games of hide-and-go-seek.
As a child in the 1960’s, I regularly participated in this time-honored contest in the tree-lined community where I grew up, Wellesley, Massachusetts. At the apogee of the historic Baby Boom, this most communal of games formed our own twentieth-century, social-media platform. Because of the vast amount of children being born in Eisenhower America, a local developer, Ralph Porter, constructed four and five bedroom houses during the winter of ’55 on a 1/2 mile road, which meandered, like all New England streets do, by rock, whim, and angle. Our family moved into our brand-new dwelling at 48 Radcliffe Road on April 30, 1955 – when I was a little more than three months old. Exactly a decade later, 109 children between the ages of 1 and 17 inhabited the 29 homes on our street.
One of our senior neighbors, who resided at the corner of Hobart and Radcliffe, often complained about the battalion of youngsters who would file in groups of 15 or so, treading together en masse to school. “Here come those damn kids!” he would yaw as the offending children formed a movable Jersey Barrier, trekking down the street in sync. I was terrified of his cantankerousness at the time, but these days, I can only smile. I guess the wondrous thing about growing older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve experienced in life.
Back then, of course, our childhoods were largely autonomous. If afternoon or summer jobs did not govern us because we were too young at the time, we were only obligated to show up at our houses for both lunch and then dinner. For as much as nine hours during the day, we were blissfully on own. Our parents, who had been framed by the Great Depression and World War II, believed both in fresh air and little adult interference. In a world where there were only four television channels available, all we had was each other.
That proved to be more than enough.
Because we instinctively intermingled like a gaggle of geese, we knew each other’s quirks, qualities, and foibles. We even recognized the distinctive clang of each family’s dinner bell. “Time to go home for supper, Art, Anne, Charlie, and Jeannie!” we would bark when the Garrity’s chime would ring out. (Sometimes, even their dog, Sam, would venture home at the sound of the bell). My own dinner signal was the Town of Wellesley’s idiosyncratic fire whistle, which would habitually blow from our community’s firehouse at precisely 5:45 each evening. It’s deep-throated crescendo still throbs in my memory even though it made its last appearance in town many years ago.
While we all experienced some nicks and bruises along the way, our Greatest Generation parents believed that you only came home during the day if you were bleeding. My tough-as-nails mother was typical of the kind of “suck-it-up” attitude that prevailed among the adults on the street. As I joked years later, if Mum had been in Dealey Plaza when JFK was shot, she would have told him to walk it off.
Ultimately, we kiddies played together all day and into the evening on weekends. When school was in session, we would inevitably walk together to our various schools. For six years, for example, Brian Fay and I routinely trudged to either the junior high or high school in concert. If the timing was right, we would then be joined by neighbors Jay and Sally McCreery, Peter Reed, Charlie and Ann Garrity, and Wendy and Holly Seiler. By the time we reached Hobart Road, Phil Carens might amble out, sleepy-eyed but still rarin’ to go. By that time, we might have as many as a dozen kids with us. To us, security was omnipresent; there was always safety in numbers. We felt both unquestionably safe and alive. The vast majority of us believed that childhood was the kingdom where nobody died.
Like most kids back then, sports remained the epicenter of our neighborhood lives and followed the course of seasons without exception. We played touch football in the fall; street hockey and basketball during the winter and spring seasons, and baseball or whiffleball during the summer.
This beehive of sports activity depended upon geography and circumstance. Hockey and baseball were played first at the Patrick’s at 49 Radcliffe Road, but when they moved to California in 1965, both playing fields were shifted to the Fay’s next door. Football was reserved for the Sullivan’s front yard up the street. Because we had the best hoop and the flattest driveway, my brother and I hosted countless games of basketball over the years. There was only one problem – an overhanging tree limb that often blocked players’ shots to the basket. When that occurred, we would roar, “Blocked by Cliff Branch!” – as in the then-famed wide-receiver for the Oakland Raiders.
Because it was our house and our driveway, I began to practice how to make an inconceivable bank shot off the storm window of my parents’ bathroom window and into the net. After a ridiculous investment of trial-by-error practice, I ended up getting pretty good at it by the time I was 10. Because there were so many youngsters to compete with at the time, I was continuously seeking the ultimate home-court advantage.
Within the confines of Radcliffe Road, my family was known as the “White Kellys,” because our dwelling was painted white with dark green shutters. Residing next to us, however, were the “Red Kellys,” a family whose house was decidedly scarlet. A palpable rivalry ensued within the neighborhood community where kids eventually had to take sides in a world where there were no shades of gray. We had the Fays and the Patricks, for instance, firmly entrenched with us. Our weapon of choice, of course, were the bountiful amount of crabapples that fell on both of our properties and the surrounding environs. At the time, I assumed that our little rivalry was, at best, provincial. Consequently, I was astonished when a friend from Elmwood Road, more than three miles away, asked me if I was a White Kelly or a Red Kelly. I guess controversy traveled long and far in those days.
Situated in the Fuller Brook section of Wellesley, Radcliffe Road buttressed the western end of Wellesley’s prominent cemetery, Woodlawn. Hence, when one of us observed a hearse from either Waterman’s or Leo J. Doherty’s, our town’s two primary funeral homes, creep slowly down adjacent Brook Street, the word would soon spread: “There’s gonna be a funeral today.” For the vast majority of neighborhood kids, including my brother, Mark, this was a manifestly undesirable event, and they stayed well clear of such proceedings.
However, there were a few of us who were well…intrigued. After a service was over, we would subsequently hide in the trees or even behind gravestones and watch a myriad of Woodlawn employees do their thing. We were there for the entire process – from the mechanical shovel that scooped out the earth to the installation of the cement casing to the subsequent lowering of the casket into the ground. In the summertime, these same workers would meticulously place artificial grass over the soil and then move to their next assignment.
Usually, the entire job would take several hours. The most haunting part of the process – and I mean that in the most literal sense – would transpire during the lull of the proceedings when the men would take their lunch breaks. In the meantime, the deceased’s coffin would lie on top of the ground like a discarded camp trunk – waiting to be buried for all of eternity.
As a couple of us hid behind two headstones, one of us would whisper to the other with a heady mixture of glee and horror, “Are you brave enough to sprint to that casket and tag it?” Even the thought of doing it so horrified us that it gave us nightmares, but that was all part of the charm.
Of course, the head “cemetery man” knew all about we neighborhood kids who liked to play on Woodlawn’s property. Thus, he was forever threatening to call the police whenever children were playing on a human-made hill owned by Woodlawn. Over time, this singular mound of soil, which sloped down at a gradual incline like a bunny-trail ski slope, reached more than thirty feet into the sky. Because virtually all of our dads were World War II veterans, the massive pile took on much greater proportions in our prodigious imaginations. Ultimately, it became the foundational site for an ongoing neighborhood version of the Battle of the Bulge. One enterprising Radcliffe boy, Mark Fuller, brazenly announced one day that he was a five-star general. We immediately gave in to such sweeping ambition.
Before the hill was removed bit-by-bit by the late ’60’s, we played “war” on it for hours, especially on weekends. This turned out to be our introduction to politics, negotiation, and psychology. Predictably, we were always trying to look for an angle. On one occasion, when we were ensconced in a protracted battle with the Red Kellys, I intuitively slid around their house, hid in the bushes at the base of their porch, and overheard their secret plans to take over “Fortress Fuller” on “Cemetery Hill.” When I reported back to General Fuller, he broke into an Eisenhower-like grin and then slapped me on the back, bellowing, “You’ll be decorated for this!”
During the dog days of summer in pre-air-conditioning America, there were times we didn’t want to cavort too much, and so we essentially stayed put on such searing days. Consequently, we invented a little town of our own at the top of the street in a chunk of semi-woods, which we named, “Pinecone Village.” We each made a tiny home and played out our childhood loves by “coupling” with someone who would then share our little domicile for the summer. Thus, neighbor Holly Seiler became my first wife.
When winter visited in the days before global warming, we sometimes had as much as 100 inches or more of snow. Therefore, we had two options for sledding. The Sullivans had a decent slope at the end of the street adjacent to Brook Street, not far from Pinecone Village. However, because Radcliffe Road had one of the steepest hills in all of Wellesley, we usually blocked off the street with a concoction of both toys and rakes. Those of us with either sleds or toboggans would then commence at the Garrity’s house and coast to a stop near Steve Woodward’s abode at the bottom of the street – an eighth-of-a-mile away. While I almost bought the farm one February day when I nearly smashed my sled into a fire hydrant near the Pelles’s house, I eventually plowed my little flyer against the base of an offending boxwood shrub.
However, despite all of our activities involved in everything from war to street hockey, it was our gargantuan games of hide-and-go-seek, which proved to be the single most inclusive activity of them all. We never had less than 30 participants; occasionally, we might have many as 70, if we included the kids from Hobart and Southgate roads.
Typically, we would convene at the top of Radcliffe adjacent to the telephone pole by the Haley’s house and take up “sides.” For the next two-to-three hours, we would use all of our facilities to avoid getting caught. The game would subsequently end not with one side necessarily winning but the various family bells ringing out for dinner. Our designated rendezvous point turned out to be the stately telephone pole by the Haley’s house at the top of our street’s elongated hill. Over the years, you could witness scores of Radcliffe Road children pressing their little hands against the brown-stained wood and then wailing out into the abyss, “OLLIE OLLIE IN COME FREE!”
When I think back on this most communal of games these days, I now recognize that we played hide-and-go-seek unreservedly, with unfettered glee, and without any hidden agenda. Five decades later, virtually every memory of it is a blur, except for one triumphant contest. It occurred thanks to the near cataclysmic Cuban Missile Crisis. Because we has been “this close” to a nuclear holocaust, the Haley’s hired a local firm to construct a well-fashioned bomb shelter in their backyard.
Thus, it didn’t take long for Dougie Haley and me to come up with an epiphany. One teaming day during the summer of ’63, we ended up hiding in the family’s bomb shelter for more than three hours. Nobody could find us. In the meantime, we were safe from both Nikita Khrushchev and our neighborhood pals. For one brief and shining moment in our childhoods, we were the kings of the neighborhood. Because of Dougie’s and my sagacity, however, the Haley’s bomb shelter was deemed “out of bounds” for eternity.
The last time we all participated in a massive Radcliffe Road hide-and-go-seek game occurred during the early evening the day after I graduated from Wellesley High School. Our neighbors hosted a block-party on the street for all of us who had just graduated. After the cookout ended, my old pal and fellow graduate, Doug Haley, convinced all of us to play one last game of hide-and-seek. Virtually everyone eagerly joined in the fray, which went on well into the dark.
Two months later, I left for college.
On June 1, 2019, I visited my old neighborhood in Wellesley when I went back to speak at the memorial service for a beloved high school teacher. The day before, Mrs. Betty Fay, the matriarch of Radcliffe Road, had finally passed on at 97. Her seven children, my childhood chums, had all ventured back home, mostly from the West, for her funeral. When I entered their familiar house that day, we literally fell into each other’s arms. I hadn’t seen many of the Fay children for decades, but it didn’t matter. We still knew and loved each other to our very cores. As Nancy Fay exclaimed, “We had seven children in our family, but we really had about 50 siblings.”
When her younger sister, Betsy, asked me about the last time I had seen her mother, I smiled, “Last year! I was in the neighborhood, and I observed that the kitchen light was on, and so I knocked on the door. When your Mom saw me, she chirped, ‘Oh, Shaun – come on in!’ – as if it was 1965.”
We all had a good laugh at that one.
I also shared with them the last time I conversed with their father, Jim Fay before he died in 1995. As we sat out in his beloved indoor porch, Mr. Fay remarked, “You know, Shaun, when you kids were out there playing on the street, to me it was the best sound imaginable.”
When I was then introduced to one of Fay spouses, she asked me in total innocence, “Are you a Red Kelly or a White Kelly?” The story had been passed on to her. And here I was a living and breathing White Kelly who had come back to the golden street once again.
After we spent an hour reminiscing about our communal childhoods, one of the Fay children, Betsy, who was now 61 years old, exclaimed, “How lucky we were that we all grew up together!” I smiled and agreed heartily with Bets. In hindsight, our inadvertent gathering was nothing less than a family reunion.
Before I left Radcliffe Road that day, I ventured up-and-down the old street for a spell. As I paraded from the remains of Pinecone Village to the old Woodward house, I realized that this particular spot on earth remained my epicenter. Eventually, I stopped at the telephone pole by the Haley’s house, leaned against it, and then murmured to myself, “Ollie Ollie In Come Free.”
Needless to say, no child came scurrying from stately bushes, majestic trees, or even old bomb shelters to join me at the old upright. In reality, the silence was mostly complete except for the infallible New England wind, which blew memories in swirls as I pressed my hand against the pole one last time.
In memory of the few of us from the old neighborhood who have died much too young – Holly Seiler, Steve Woodward, and Bobby Haley – and for a few guardian angel parents who were always there for us – Jim and Betty Fay, Lynn and Bernice Patrick, and Larry and Laurie Kelly.
While I have been blessed in my life to have met a former Beatle; three US Presidents; a British Prime Minister; a Nobel Prize winner; and two Presidential Medal of Freedom recipients; the greatest thrill for me occurred when I greeted Apollo II’s Buzz Aldrin in September 2010 when he spoke to our Middle School students for 45 riveting minutes. As we celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Apollo II moonwalk this week, how terrific that both Mike Collins and Buzz are still with us! As a lifelong space junkie, the original Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo astronauts have always been monumental heroes to me.
When Mr. Aldrin spoke to us nine years ago, he reminded us that NASA was a collective effort on more than 600,000 Americans. “Neil Armstrong and I were the ones who got credit,” he said, “but it was the ultimate ‘group effort’.” He then winked at the kids and laughed, “Remember, there’s no I in the word, team!”
In retrospect, when President John F. Kennedy committed our nation to go to the moon in 1961, the top tax rate in the United States was at 91 percent. When Apollo 11 landed eight years later, it was at 77 percent. Fifty years later, we “can’t afford to pay for anything.”
Um, yes, we can. Our current mission, if enough Americans accept the overwhelming evidence of science, is to curb climate change. Therefore, our next moon mission should be right here at home. We need to collectively solve global warming before we leave this fragile planet uninhabitable. We can do it. As JFK said so convincingly 58 years ago, “No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings.”
During a fifteen-minute break from working at a local market after school each day in 1971, I used to dart to the local record store and peer at the over-sized display window for the latest LP releases. Like countless adolescents who grew up in the late sixties and early seventies, album art back then invariably piqued my interest. After all, it was the initial artistic expression of the music that lay inside of each record jacket. At the time, a long-playing record cover measured 12.3 inches squared. Thus, how an album was marketed mattered a lot to nearly everyone. As former Columbia Records President Don Ienner revealed to me years later, “In 1964, when Capitol (Records) marketed the Beatles’ first LP release in the US with the black-and-white photo montage for their American début, Meet the Beatles, that LP-cover sold thousands of more records. Of course, it was a brilliant marketing ploy.”
Thus, when I sprinted to my local record store during a work break In September 1971, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the latest album that was featured in the front window of the Music Box in Wellesley, Massachusetts. There, prominently displayed so that all could see it was a record cover that was so distinctive, surreal, and hypnotic that I was instantly mesmerized. The Moody Blues, the album read at the top, and then the age-old, mystifying Anglo-Saxon aphorism, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour.
With artwork by contemporary English artist, Phil Travers, the lettering, Bocklin (comparable to Expo today), was based on a typeface design initially introduced by the Otto Weisert foundry of Stuttgart, Germany in 1904. The assumption, of course, was that the archetypal music buyer would be pushed to believe that the music within the enchanted record jacket would also contain 42 minutes of wonder.
I immediately plunged into the music store, purchased the LP, and returned to work, counting off the minutes until I could barge home and give it a listen. As a relentless fan of the Moody Blues since the 1967 release of their groundbreaking album, Days of Future Passed, I knew that this could be another precarious endeavor by a band that specialized in transcendence.
Because of the theatrical, ethereal, and almost childlike virtuousness of their multi-dimensional series of concept albums that framed the Moody Blues from 1968-73, more than a few rock fans during that time dismissed them as cosmic lightweights. To most of my hard-rock friends back then, the Moodies were Pink Floyd-lite; muzak for the soft-rock crowd, unsubstantiated nothingness with pretty melodies, sappy lyrics, and lush but saccharine orchestration. This was primarily because their first two substantial hits as a reformed band, “Tuesday Afternoon,” and “Nights in White Satin,” were quickly labeled as “high priests of trippy, high-art pomp” in an infamous review in Rolling Stone.
In reality, the Moody Blues were venerable pioneers of progressive rock. Still, the original group had one more rhythm and blues British Invasion band that had followed the template of the Stones and the Animals. Even though the band from Birmingham, England had a top ten hit with their 1964 single, “Go Now,” the Moodies went through a series of changes until they reinvented themselves three years later by adding wunderkind Justin Hayward as both lead guitarist and lead vocalist and the multi-talented John Lodge on bass. It was the equivalent of Fleetwood Mac adding Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham a few years later.
Throughout much of 1967, the Moodies composed, rehearsed, collaborated, and eventually recorded their concept-album masterwork, Days of Future Passed, with the 133-member, London Festival Orchestra, deftly conducted by Peter Knight. When it was released that fall, musicologists recognized that the group had invented a new musical genre – art rock – a potent combination of psychedelia, classical, and R&B that gave their sound a celestial sound. Because the band deemphasized the kick in their rock sound throughout the album, many rock fans dismissed them as quintessential soft rockers. I stood my ground with the naysayers and pleaded with them to “give a listen to the brilliance.”
The pretense of Days of Future Passed was simple and yet onerous – the Moody Blues attempted to capture a day in the life of people living and surviving in the modern world – from dawn to eventide. While “Tuesday Afternoon (Forever Afternoon”), and “Nights and White Satin” were both top-ten hits, the magic of the album could be found in the interludes in-between.
This was not a head-banging experience; it was both cerebral and whimsical, heady fare for the common man. When it was released, New York Magazine dismissed it as “a ponderous mound of thought-jello.” Ultimately, though, their music has aged well. The ‘band’s reassessment is such that they finally garnered a well-deserved spot as group members in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2018. Rather than followers without originality, they are now viewed as visionaries who had enough talent, ingenuity, moxie, and élan to create their own musical universe. Interestingly, Rolling Stone, which trashed Days of Future Passed in 1967, hailed it five decades later as…”one of the most endearingly popular albums of its time.” In the end, it is one of those concept albums that begs to be played in one listen.
In musical history, the Moodies, of course, were one of the first bands to fully employ the Mellotron in their music, which helped them build multilayered soundscapes. Invented in their hometown of Birmingham in 1963, the Mellotron is an electro-mechanical, polyphonic tape replay keyboard. (John Lennon first made it famous in 1967’s “Strawberry Fields Forever.”) This dynamic musical force would lie at the heart of their second major masterwork, 1968’s In Search of the Lost Chord, an album that sought to encapsulate a voyage of discovery in people everywhere. (Talk about a cosmic undertaking!) Because the Moody Blues were no longer working with a full orchestra, the Mellotron, under the creative genius of keyboardist Mike Pinder, took center stage for them over the next six original albums. Justin Hayward’s collaboration with Pinder on “Voices in the Sky,” is typical of the sweeping melodic and lyrical sounds the group came up with in terms of vocals, guitars, and Pinder’s Mellotron prowess.
Another quintessential Moody Blues’ attribute, the use of the narrative voice, through the distinct, Oxfordian-affected tenor of percussionist Graeme Edge, provided the bookends for the album in the form of an introduction and an epilogue. Edge’s poetic salvo, which opens In Search of the Lost Chord proved to be one of his more beloved openers (in this case, to their top ten single from the album, “Ride My See-Saw”) of any in the Moody Blues prodigious catalog.
The same force frames the prologue, “The Word,” featuring Edge, and “Om,” a luminous, collaborative effort, which features the unmistakable Eastern sound of the sitar along with a hypnotic, otherworldly chant framed in Western-based imagery. Justin Hayward’s sitar-playing is a revelation and radiantly supports vocals from all five members of the band. As George Harrison stated later on, “In terms of combining Western and Eastern sounds, only the Moody Blues and the Beatles were stirring both components together in the late sixties.”
On the heels of In Search of the Lost Chord, the Moodies plowed right into On a Threshold of a Dream, which sold more records for the band than any disc until their 1981 comeback album, Long Distance Voyager. Considered their most conspicuous hard-rock album, the record is full of surprises, most notably the soulful tune, “So Deep Within You,” which was later a hit single for the legendary Motown group, the Four Tops. Compared to many of their progressive and psychedelic contemporaries, in retrospect, the Moody Blues sound like a band that was making profoundly experimental music at the time. The LP also contains the Top 20 hit, “Never Comes the Day,” featuring the acoustic guitar of Justin Hayward and the Mike Pinder’s seamless Mellotron work. The vocal lead by Hayward here is considered the finest of his long public career. For many longtime fans, “Never Comes the Day” is their favorite Moody Blues tune ever.
After the success of both In Search of the Lost Chord and On a Threshold of a Dream, the Moodies were ambitious enough to then compose an entire album in order to celebrate the impending Apollo 11 moon landing. While To Our Children’s Children’s Children sold well at the time, it was dismissed by some rock critics for being too far-reaching and offbeat. In addition, it was the fourth major LP release by the band in a bit more than two-years. Thankfully, as we approach the fiftieth anniversary of Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon’s Sea of Tranquility, the Moody Blues’ To Our Children’s Children’s Children is beginning to receive some well-deserved airtime once again. After all, a band that sells 75 million albums worldwide over the last 50 years is nothing to sniff at, right?
Throughout this remarkable LP, the Moodies describe a species capable of both astonishing accomplishment with a deep-seated urgency to destroy anything in its wake. As humans climb higher, the band infers, there are still many who have been buried beneath the stuff of ambition. The group’s connecting ballads, “The Eyes of a Child” and “I’d Never Thought I’d Live to be a Hundred,” speak directly to the bookends of innocence and malice. (And on Side 2, when humankind is about to land on the moon, the band update the ballad and sings, “”I’d Never Thought I’d Live to be a Million” – a nod to the fact that the human race has not only endured and thrived over time.)
The first side of To Our Children’s Children’s Children ends with a transcendent instrumental by Graeme Edge, a cosmic gallop into the outer galaxy, which then leads to Mike Pinder’s “Out and In,” whose inspiring Mellotron work here matches his seamless vocals. One of the aspects of the band’s success, of course, is that most fans have their personal favorites from each album. There are very few universally popular tunes out there by the Moody Blues because each song is enduring in its own way. For me, “Out and In” is one of those gems, a purposely understated ode to wonder.
The most best-selling single of the album, Justin Hayward’s “Gypsy,” begins the second side of To Our Children’s Children’s Children with aplomb. From Ray Thomas’s lilting flute to Pinder’s exquisite Melotron to Edge’s buoyant percussional work, this is an aggregate tour de force, which has remained near the top of any Moody Blues playlist. In the end, though, it’s Justin Hayward’s virtuosity as a lead singer/guitarist who drives the engine here. His paean to exploration is unreservedly sublime and evocative.
Written out of the same pocket of dreams as “Nights in White Satin,” “Watching and Waiting,” the concluding song of To Our Children’s Children’s Children is a nostalgic and yet haunting tune is one of the most revered ballads in that larger-than-expected network known as MoodyHeads. Throughout the ballad, a pensive Justin Hayward ponders the meaning of life given our newfound status as space travelers. Given how spiritual many of their tunes were, you could make a case that “Watching and Waiting” is on top of the pile under the classification of “heartfelt and ascendant.” As usual, Hayward is radiant on every note, both as the song’s lead guitarist and primary vocalist. And when he speculates on landing on an alien planet, well, his extraterrestrial plunge into speculation is inspired: “‘Cause here – there’s a lot of room for doing/The things you’ve always been denied/So look – and gather all you want to/There’s no one here to stop you – trying.” It was the faultless closure of an aspiring release that ultimately fulfilled such exhilarating ambitions.
Over the next three years, the Moody Blues continued their sustained inventiveness by releasing the fetching albums, A Question of Balance; Every Good Boy Deserves Favour and Seventh Sojourn. In A Question of Balance, the band focused on the power of the individual against a society that seemed both indifferent and all-powerful. The Moodies purposefully stripped down their sound and reinvented themselves for this disc without the layer-upon-layer approach, which had come to define them in the previous four albums. The release begins with the title track, “Question,” which turned out to be a Top 20 hit for the band in the winter of 1970. An astutely layered anti-war ballad, it is clothed by a Segovia-like acoustic riff by lead guitarist Hayward, followed by a thunderclap of horns and strings, which then pushes the relevance of the tune to its lyrical center: “Why do we never get an answer/When we’re knocking at the door? With a thousand million questions about hate and death and war?”
However, it is the bridge of the song, which remains both transcendent and life-altering.
I’m looking for someone to change my life
I’m looking for a miracle in my life
And if you could see what it’s done to me
To lose the the love I knew
Could safely lead me to
The land that I once knew
To learn as we grow old
The secrets of our souls…”
This is one of those meaningful ballads, which has received considerable airplay over the years. When Justin Hayward asks his questions, there’s percussionist Graeme Edge responding in a primal-drum response that is so dynamic that it propelled the tune, “Question,” into the classic rock category.
In their celebrated 1971 follow-up, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, the group opens up with one of their most memorable song/poems: “Procession,” which includes the sounds of rain, wind, and a Gregorian-like call-response in order to capture the pathos they were seeking to record. “Desolation! Creation! Communication!” This musically sublime accumulation of sound connects primitive to modern humankind like very few works of art have in recent times. It all leads into the album’s most beloved song of the LP, “Story in Your Eyes,” which opens with a prodigious guitar lick by Justin Hayward and a tum-tum roll by drummer Graeme Edge that is worthy of Dave Clark. The uplifting string lines of the Mellotron soar above the three-harmonic voices of Moody Blues vocalists Justin Hayward, Mike Pinder, and John Lodge creating a sonic landscape that frames the rest of the album. Despite the contrast between ancient and new, the one prevailing human emotion has been love.
“I’ve been thinking about our fortune
And I’ve decided that we’re really not to blame
For the love that’s deep inside us now, is still the same
And the sound we make together
Is the music to the story in your eyes
It’s been shining down upon you now, I realize.”
The band’s septenary release since 1967, Seventh Sojourn, proved to be a prophetic, cultural sigh to an epoch framed by political assassinations, war, inequality, and the wasting away of both human and earthy resources. It was clear that both the Moody Blues and the culture that had framed them were exhausted after listening to a record that turned out to be a discordant mixture of regret, hope, and anger. Still, there were moments of genuine lucidity. In their first single from the album, “Isn’t Life Strange?” the Moodies ask an eternal question then give the immutable response – human need. The interplay between John Lodge and Justin Hayward is lovely here, as is the group’s impeccable musicianship, something that has been profoundly underappreciated over the years by many.
Seventh Sojourn closes with a final exhalation, “I’m Just a Singer in a Rock and Roll Band.” It was the Moody Blues attempt to tell their fans that they weren’t gurus or messiahs. You won’t find the eternal answers with them. You will only find them within your own heart and experiences. While some critics called the song, the band’s “washing their hands” moment, the fidelity behind it was just too profound to deny or misconstrue.
“I’m Just a Singer in a Rock and Roll Band” wasn’t just the final song of their seventh album in six years, it turned out to the band’s finale to their pronounced classic-rock period. Like their American contemporaries, Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Moody Blues were too exhausted to conjure up any more creativity from their collective wellspring of for five years, until their 1978 comeback album, Octave. That same year, Justin Hayward and company recorded their most exquisite number since “Tuesday Afternoon,” which was featured on the Jeff Wayne War of the Worlds album, “Forever Autumn.” A single that made it to the number 5 spot on the US Billboard Top 40 in October 1978, the ballad is now considered one of the best songs written and recorded about the most bittersweet of seasons.
Three years later, the band would produce an album worthy of their work in the late ’60’s, Long Distance Voyager, which sold more units than any disc they ever produced. Despite the premature retirement of Mike Pinder and the recent death of Ray Thomas, the Moody Blues still perform in concert, a half-century after they reached the ultimate pinnacle of success. In 2018, the group finally was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, an injustice that left fans like me perplexed for more than two decades.
Thirty years ago, Justin Hayward paid a visit to a Boston FM station for a scheduled interview before a summer concert on the Boston Common. When I heard that the leader of the Moodies was going to be on the air, I eagerly tuned in, anxious to hear the normally humble lead guitarist and vocalist answer a plethora of questions in a crowded hour. As the interview concluded, Justin Hayward admitted, “Over the past twenty years, our band has ventured around the sun more than a few times, but after a while, we’ve stopped, not wanting to repeat ourselves in any way. Like a beating heart, we’re here. We’re still here.”
June 6, 2020. Two authentic legends are retiring from the classroom at The Greenwich (CT) Country Day School this coming week – Jack Jepson and Jon Bates. Despite their desires to fade into perpetual mist, both master-teachers are not going to quietly depart to the confines of Stratford, Connecticut and Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts without some des acclamations from me.
Jack Jepson: For those who know and love him, there is absolutely no subtly to Mr. Jepson. He is like a persistent tsunami who washes over everyone he comes in contact with every day. Whether it’s a wellspring of trivia-facts, a bevvy of enthralling anecdotes, or Midwestern-laced, commonsense advice, Jack is a rock in the surf who is there to help ground you in every way imaginable. In reality, “J, J.” has been my go-to person for the past 29 years – not only concerning teaching, coaching, and dealing with students – but in dealing with life’s unexpected twists and turns. His wisdom is unquestioned; ultimately, Mr. Jepson has served as our school’s philosopher king since 1977.
Even though Jack’s deep-seated insights and wealth of knowledge are without rival, it is his expansive heart that makes such a beloved and irreplaceable figure at GCDS. In boxing terms, Mr. Jepson leads with his head but characteristically finishes with his heart. Not surprisingly, I have never witnessed a more respected faculty member among students than Jack Jepson (who reverently call him, “Jeppy”). Ultimately, there are very few people who have ever worked at Country Day who know as much about the place. Like a fixed star, Jack Jepson is a constant reminder of how one teacher can truly make a sustaining difference in the world.
I look forward to future walks with him in his new home in Stratford, Connecticut and for visits to our house on the Cape. Thank you, Jack, for being such a discerning, steadfast, and benevolent older brother and comrade-in-arms to me, and a second father to my two children, especially to my younger son, Max. Tu me manques.
Jon Bates: “Mr. B.” has long been Country Day’s Sequoia, a majestic, robust, steadfast, and graceful tree whose sturdy branches have protected all of us for nearly 40 years. An active listener and a sagacious colleague, Jon’s ample wisdom has been a difference-maker to both to my esteemed colleagues and me. There have been innumerable times that I have approached Jon for advice, and he has generously given both his time and his thoughts to me through the bookends of both humility and astuteness. Ultimately, he is a positive role-model extraordinaire for people from 10 to 99. “If Jon Bates approves this, then I’m on board,” is a constant refrain heard at faculty meetings over the years.
Jon’s enduring passion for his students, his players, his colleagues, and his school have helped fostered the long-held notion that he has made our school a much better place. My oldest son, Sam, once exclaimed to me, “Mr. Bates makes the complex explainable.” If teaching is the highest form of understanding, then Jon Bates has served as an example for all of us to emulate. Like his esteemed colleague, Jack Jepson, he is the ultimate difference-maker.
A thriving new beginning should be a time for newfound engagement, positive growth, fascinating connections, continued contributions, and astonishing possibilities. The good people of Martha’s Vineyard are so fortunate to have you in their midst. Thank you and Godspeed, Mr. Bates!
It’s May 2002. Teacher friend Bud Pollack and I are at the old Stadium in the Bronx for a Sox-Yankees game that evening. It begins to rain, so Bud picks up his cell and calls one of his former students who was a producer at MSG at the time. He invites us up to visit him, and we end up conversing with former major league stars turned baseball announcers, Jim Kaat and Bobby Murcer, in the spacious MSG broadcast booth as the rain continues to pour down onto the emerald field below.
Just as we depart, Bobby Murcer said, “You know, fellas, Bob Sheppard loves to meet teachers who visit the press box. After all, he’s been one himself for decades.”
Jim Kaat then explains that Bob Sheppard had taught at Columbia since the 1960’s. “Willie Mays might come into the booth, and Bob will be accommodating as always, but he feels most at home with his fellow teachers. I know that he would love to greet you both.”
For those of you who might not know about him, Bob Sheppard was the legendary public address announcer for the New York Yankees from 1951 to 2007. For 56 seasons, Mr. Sheppard ended up announcing more than 4,500 Yankees baseball games 22 pennant-winning seasons and 13 World Series championships. “He is the voice of God,” Mickey Mantle once explained. Boston’s Carl Yastrzemski stated famously, “You’re not in the big leagues until Bob Sheppard announces your name.”
As Bud and I entered his cramped booth at the old Stadium, we knew that Bob Sheppard had announced the revered names of Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle, Jackie Robinson, and Yogi Berra with such precision that Columbia had asked him to teach courses on elocution. “I found my true calling when I entered the classroom,” he stated matter-of-factly to us. “It changed my life.”
The quintessential gentleman, Mr. Sheppard couldn’t have been more gracious or accommodating, especially to two passionate Red Sox fans. We conversed about our classes, our passions, and why teaching continued to remain at the epicenter of our lives. The legendary PA announcer then asked me who my favorite Sox player was. When I informed him that it was the late Tony Conigliaro, he smiled and said, “A fine, fine choice, Shaun.” He then flipped on a switch in his booth, which was an interior sound check only, and bellowed: “Batting for Boston, Number 25, Tony Conigliaro, right field, Conigliaro.”
I thanked Mr. Sheppard profusely. “That does the old heart good,” I remarked. He threw me an appreciative smile.
Just as Bud Pollack and I were leaving the booth, he asked me what my number was I was a player in my younger days. “Number 14, Mr. Sheppard,” I answered. “Well, Shaun, I am going to do this for you because you are a fellow teacher!” He then switched on a speaker in his booth and clamored in his best Mount Olympus voice: “Now pitching for Boston, number 14, Shaun Kelly, pitcher, Boston.”
I told Mr. Sheppard that he had just given me my all-time favorite baseball highlight. He smiled and said to Bud and me, “Now go back to the classroom and continue to make a difference!”
While Bob Sheppard’s Zeus-like voice continued to echo the names of hundreds of baseball players at Yankee Stadium over the next five seasons, it was the humble words he imparted to us that have stayed with me ever since. Eight years later, three months short of his hundredth birthday, Bob Sheppard died. When I think back on the time we met in his cramped announcer’s booth seventeen years ago this month, I realize now as a Sox fan that I wasn’t in enemy territory then.
The Fab Four play their own version of “Up On the Roof” in January 1969 – fifty years ago this year.
“Get Together,” The Youngbloods, 1969. This clarion call for peace, love, and understanding turned out to be one the defining songs of the ’60’s. Ultimately, “Get Together” became a staple anthem at anti-war protests beginning in September of 1969, when it finally became a significant hit. What most people don’t realize, however, was that it was recorded in 1964 by the Kingston Trio and re-recorded in 1965 by the We Five (of “You Were on My Mind” fame). When Jesse Colin Young and the Youngbloods recorded it two years later, it turned barely was a blip on the screen during the Summer of Love – 1967. Because so many fans said that they loved the tune, however, RCA released it two years later. In its second release, “Get Together” ultimately made it to number one! Some of the lyrics are rather zen: “We are but a moment’s sunlight; Fading in the grass…” But the chorus is very clear in its message: “Come on, people now/Smile on your brother/ Everybody get together/Try to love one another/Right now.” Fifty years to the day that it hit number 5 on the Billboard Top 40, “Come Together” is now considered one of the iconic anthems of the peace movement.
“Nothing But a Miracle,” Diane Birch, 2009. The number one song worldwide ten years ago this September, the best thing I can say about this stellar release is that it sounds as if it could have been recorded during the height of soul music’s extraordinary run (1964-77). As one of my musician friends said to me one time about “Nothing But a Miracle,” it is the kind of ballad that you dream of both composing and recording. According to Birch herself, the song dealt with her apprehension about relationships and was inspired by a dead-end one that she spent around nine months in. “I’ve definitely been in a relationship where you’re kind of going through the emotions,” she said. “It’s something that a lot of people can relate to in life.”
“My Cherie Amour,” Stevie Wonder, 1969. Stevie actually composed this classic hit in 1967 when he was a student at Michigan School for the Blind, recorded a rough cut, and then inserted it into his trusty “tape box,” where he kept his song ideas intact. Wonder wrote the tune for his girlfriend at the time, Marcia, and the song was initially entitled, “Oh, My Marcia.” By the time he recorded the ballad two years later, Marcia was in the rear-view mirror, so Stevie changed the title to “My Cherie Amour.” Ever since this wondrous single (no pun intended) came out, I have pondered how a man who is blind compose songs like this with such prescient vision. In his canon of music, this nugget from September ’69 has to be way, way up there. Kudos as well to Motown’s Funk Brothers for providing such a phenomenal musical backdrop for the singer/keyboardist.
“The Sea of Love,” Phil Phillips, 1959. Set against one of the most absurd vocal backups in rock and roll history and featuring former bellhop Phil Phillips’ tremulous and bizarre bel canto voice – this was the number 2 hit in the US and Canada 60 years ago this September. In retrospect, a follow-up to this song is absolutely inconceivable.
“Rock and Roll High School,” The Ramones, 1979. The late Johnny and Joey Ramone composed this song for the movie Rock ‘N’ Roll High School, which is about a student who leads a rock rebellion against the school administration. In the film, the student, Riff Randell, played by P. J. Soles, writes the song in her songwriting class and plays it to her receptive classmates during gym class. It ends up being a searing anthem for that high school – and, of course, for the greater audience who saw it in droves in theaters across the US four decades ago. One year before I entered “the other side” and became a teacher, I still felt as if I was a misunderstood student. I think I’ve spent an entire career now trying “to understand” those who feel misconstrued as this song does so vividly here.
“Ticket to Ride,” The Beatles, 1965. John Lennon, the chief composer of this classic song from the movie, Help, long claimed that “A Ticket to Ride” was “one of the earliest heavy metal records ever made.” Although they were actually trumped by the Kinks, who, a year previously had come out with Ray Davies infectious, “You Really Got Me,” the group’s recording of “Ticket to Ride,” according to musicologist Steve Turner “was the first Beatles’ track to feature an insistent, clanking riff underpinned by a heavy drum beat while using a fade-out with an altered melody.” While most English fans at the time assumed that the ballad referred to a Brit Rail ticket to the town of Ryde on the Isle of Wight, John Lennon had a quirkier response, according to Don Short, a London journalist who traveled extensively with the band throughout their Beatlemania days. A play on words – one of John’s favorite literary tricks – lay in the cornerstone of “Ticket to Ride.” As Short later remembered three decades later, “John told me that the phrase referred to the girls who were working the streets of Hamburg, who had a clean bill of health when the Beatles worked there. Thus, the medical authorities would give them a card saying that they didn’t have a dose of anything. John told me that he coined the phrase, ‘a ticket to ride’ to describe those cards!” The sexual connotation notwithstanding, what is known is that on February 15, 1965, the Beatles met at Abbey Road Studio Number 2 in order to work on the soundtrack of their latest movie project, Help! During the afternoon, they ended up recording “Ticket to Ride.” A mid-tempo rumba whose music was punched out rather than played, it was the first single by the band not to make it to number one immediately. Instead, it would be the Beach Boys sprite, “Help Me Rhonda,” which would hold off the Beatles’ juggernaut until the single would ultimately make it to the top spot in both the US and the UK. Given “Ticket to Ride’s” pronounced amplification that lay within the context of a mid-tempo ditty, the avant-garde single directly influenced rock ‘n roll after that, particularly the enlarged guitar sound of the Yardbirds, whose band members included Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton, and Jimmy Page. When I recently checked the number of times that my iPod had played the Beatles’ song catalog, it was “Ticket to Ride” that had the most plays. 54 years after it was first recorded, this vastly underrated single remains an enduring masterpiece.
“Closer to Fine,” The Indigo Girls, 1989. For three decades, I have always loved the message of this song, which resonates as much today as it did when it was first released thirty years ago this fall. While there’s a melodic hook to the piece, it is the Indigo Girls’ lyrics here that take center-stage: “Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable/And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear/I wrap my fear around me like a blanket/I sailed my ship of safety ’til I sank it/I’m crawling on your shores”). No matter how far, how long or how deep you search for a definitive meaning in life, you’ll end up right back to where you started. The irony though is that accepting existential defeat might actually facilitate authentic happiness. Such sagacity from one of the truly underrated groups of the 1980’s.
“Echo Park,” Keith Barbour, 1969. One of the most desolate ballads ever composed about the aftermath of war, this underrated single barely made it to the Billboard Top 20 fifty years ago this week. Given the theme, vocals, orchestration, and tone, it should have been a Top 5 hit at least. Composed by Buzz Clifford who also wrote “Milk and Honey,” for Judy Collins, “Echo Park” was recorded by the former lead singer of the New Christy Minstrels, Keith Barbour (he of the husky voice refrain, “Green, green/it’s green they say/On the far side of the hill”). Fortuitously, “Echo Park” was backed up by LA’s legendary Wrecking Crew, who lay down a seamless musical tract worthy of Sinatra in The September of My Years. The story-line of the ballad, of course, is wrenching. It concerns an elderly father who continually walks in Los Angeles’ famed Echo Park for hours upon hours each day because his son was killed in action in Korea several years before. At the end of the song, the narrator poignantly asks, “Do you measure life in years, or is one day all you’ll ever know?” What a line. Not surprisingly, the great John Prine has long claimed that he wrote his classic, “Hello in There,” after hearing “Echo Park” on the radio during the fall of 1969. As you will discover, Keith Barbour’s version here is truly exemplary. The beauty is in the bite of his vocals even as his tone is ladened with utter fidelity. Sadly, Barbour never had another significant hit afterward. I guess that most of us are one-hit wonders anyway.
“Lovers Never Say Goodbye,” The Flamingos, 1959. Universally hailed as one of the most influential vocal groups in pop music history, the Flamingos defined doo-wop at its most elegant and sophisticated. The follow up to their number-one classic, “I Only Have Eyes for You,” the emotive “Lovers Never Say Goodbye,” turned out to be a top-ten-hit sixty years ago this September. Some of you might remember that he rock ‘n roll revival performers, Sha Na Na, used to perform “Lovers Never Say Goodbye” as their closing song a generation later. Nearly nine years after its release, Boston’s revered deejay, Arnie Ginsburg of WMEX fame, played the single twice and dedicated it to Senator Robert F. Kennedy on the day he was assassinated. Et vita brevior.
“Rockin’ in the Free World,” Neil Young, 1989. Similar to The Boss’s “Born in the USA,” Neil’s “Rockin’ in the Free World” is empirically confrontational. The tune was composed in February 1989, as the Canadian-American rocker toured the Pacific Northwest. The Ayatollah Khomeini had just issued a fatwa ordering Muslims to kill Salman Rushdie because of his controversial novel, The Satanic Verses, and Russia had recently withdrawn its forces from Afghanistan. Meanwhile Neil and his guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro, were musing on global events as they traveled to Portland. When Sampedro said to Young, “Well, I guess we’re rockin’ in the free world today,” Neil liked the line so much that he wrote the song in a Warsaw hotel room. Given the age we live in these days, I would also say that the ballad is much more relevant today than it was in 1989. Ultimately, this is one of Neil Young’s best anthems. Check it out.
“Janine,” David Bowie, 1969. Although Bowie’s first self-titled album was released in 1967, his second in 1969 attracted more attention. It spawned his much-beloved single, “Space Oddity,” as well as the lesser-known “Memory of a Free Festival,” but “Janine” stands out as one of the album’s most substantive entries. “Janine,” of course, is a traditional folk song with upbeat guitars as its primary instrumentation and some clapping as percussion. It is also one of the singer/songwriter’s more infectious songs, especially for his early recording years. Unlike some performers who came of age in the 1960’s, David Bowie’s music stands up incredibly well over time.
“Baby, Come Back,” The Equals, 1968. The Equals, who were the first fully integrated British rock band, featured the extraordinary talents of a young Eddy Grant, who is on prominent display here in their most sustaining release. When I purchased this throbbing single, which was a Top 10 hit in the US fifty-one summers ago, I had to buy another copy of the 45 a decade later at an oldies store because I had simply worn out my original one! The sound quality and footage here are vraiment magnifique. You will play it more than once. I promise.
“The Three Bells,” The Browns, 1959. This revered ballad was based on the 1945 French language song, “Les Trois Cloches,” and was composed by Jean Villard Gilles. The English lyrics were penned by Bert Reisfeld and first recorded by the Melody Maids in 1948. The song was a major 1952–53 hit by the legendary Édith Piaf. When the American vocal group, the Browns, recorded it six years later, they had no idea that it would surge to the top of the Billboard Top 40 in September 1959. Ironically, the Browns’ male vocalist, Jim Ed Brown, coincidentally had the same name as the song’s character. Sixty years ago, I vividly recall hearing this song on my grandfather’s rickety old clock-radio in our old Cape Cod kitchen just as we were packing up our things to return to Wellesley for my first formal schooling experience. It seems like a different lifetime ago. I guess the great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.
“Good Morning, Starshine,” Oliver, 1969. Another superb cover song from the Broadway musical, Hair, this lilting version ended up dominating the AM airwaves 50 years ago this August. In the end, “Good morning, Starshine” was nominated for a Grammy “Song of the Year” award. It turned out to be one of those contemporary ballads that one could call a “cultural fossil.” One of my teaching colleagues recalled hearing “Good Morning, Starshine,” on Armed Forces Radio in Vietnam during the summer of 1969. “The time and place made the song even more surreal to me at the time,” he admitted to me not long ago. The artist singing it was named William Oliver Swofford from Wilkesboro, North Carolina. Unfortunately, Oliver was a flash in the pan, although he received enthusiastic audiences for his live performances throughout the 1970’s. Eventually, though, he left show business for good in 1980. Oliver then secured a job in the pharmaceutical industry in Shreveport, Louisiana and eventually became a devoted husband and father. Tragically, he died of cancer in 2000 at the age of 54. His music lives on.
“Up the Junction,” Squeeze, 1979. On so many tangible levels, this single, which was one of the more significant hits in the UK 40 years ago this August, was unusual in that it has no chorus – and the title appears only in the last line. As usual, Squeeze guitarist Chris Difford composed the lyrics here; he got the idea to write in this style from the 1972 Roxy Music song “Virginia Plain,” as well as some of the more obscure Bob Dylan songs, “Who Killed Davey Moore?” When Difford wrote it, the song had about 16 verses, but he pared it down to 5. For those of us who lived in England in the early 1980’s, there was no band more revered in the UK at the time than the Squeeze. And, yes, I did make a pilgrimage to Clapham and went out on the Common, but I never found the girl. Such is life.
“Easy to be Hard,” Three Dog Night, 1969. While there were five singles, which were released in the summer of 1969 from the Broadway musical, Hair, none were as evocative than this inspired version by the American band, Three Dog Night. Vocalist Chuck Negron is absolutely stellar here, especially in his plaintive ending. Like the Dave Clark Five, Three Dog Night has been somewhat passed by in rock annals, and, yet, at the time, they were huge – and for good reason. In every way, this is an impeccable single and an authentic sunbeam leftover from the Woodstock Era.
“Tiger,” Fabian, 1959. One of the most popular hits from the summer of ‘59, “Tiger” was Fabian’s emphatic answer to Elvis’s “Hound Dog.” Who cares if he couldn’t really sing? We thought he sounded great at the time. By the way, the same musicians who backed Connie Francis on her string of hits do so in “Tiger” for a far less-talented Fabian. And the lyrics? “I’m feelin’ stronger than a grizzly bear; Soarin’ like an eagle flyin’ through the air; When I get you in my arms, you’d better beware. I go insane ’cause I can’t be tamed!” Finally, how about a nod to songwriter Ollie Jones, who ended up writing a string of Elvis’s B sides for his movie songs in the late ’50’s and also composed “Send for Me” for the great Nat King Cole! In a musical career whose timeline was exceedingly short, Fabian had five, top-twenty hits. This was his best.
“In the Year 2525,” Zager and Evans, 1969. It’s been a half-century since this apocalyptic ballad first entered our consciousness, and it still sadly rings true today. In the end, “In the Year 2525″ stayed at number 1 for six weeks, which was longer than any other song that year and earned it the distinction as the bestselling single of ’69. The ballad reflected the apprehension of that year even as it waxes poetic on the wonder of technology. That it was the bestselling hit worldwide on the day of the Apollo II moon-landing all the way to the original Woodstock was no accident. Here we are in 2019, and most of the stuff described in this song is already occurring on some form. I guess we don’t have to wait for 2525. Ugh.
”The Tracks of My Tears,” Aretha Franklin, 1969. What was a midnight slow jam in Atlantic Records’ New York recording studio turned into one of Aretha’s best ballads after Jerry Wexler decided to release it on wax. Over the years, however, the song has become lost in the shuffle among Franklin’s bigger hits. Although “Track of My Tears” was not a big hit on the charts (No. 72 Hot 100 in 1969), it is a ballad that many R&B fans need to seek out and listen to and be reminded once again that there was no one like Aretha Franklin. She’s been gone for a year now this August, but her music is very much alive.
“Heartbreaker,” Pat Benatar, 1979. A top-ten song 40 years ago this week, this rocker sounds as provocative and essential as it did back in 1979. Simply put, Pat Benatar nails it in “Heartbreaker.” Of course, she is backed up by her superb band, led by her husband, Neil Giraldo, who is the lead guitarist here, Scott St. Clair Sheets on rhythm guitar, Roger Capps on bass, and Glen Alexander Hamilton on drums. They were as tight a band as there was on the planet four decades ago – and fronted by a gifted lead female guitarist and vocalist. In so many ways, Pat Benatar was a harbinger of things to come.
“Marrakesh Express,” Crosby, Stills, and Nash, 1969. One of the reasons that Graham Nash left the Hollies to form Crosby, Stills, and Nash was because his former band refused to record this remarkable single, which CSN then recorded and featured as the second song on its superb debut album. The novel lyrics and supported by impeccable harmonies and Stills’ guitar arrangement on this piece, which turned out to be perfect for Nash’s innovative concept. “Marrakesh Express” was so original that there has literally been no follow-up to it since it entered the US Top 10 fifty years ago this August. Joni Mitchell once called it, “…the most original song that Graham ever composed.” Listening to it five decades ago, I wanted to be on that ride. Time and perspective have not changed my mind all these years later.
“Beyond the Sea,” Bobby Darin, 1959. The backstory is that Sinatra was going to record this first, but he decided to shelve it after hearing Bobby Darin’s seamless version on the radio 60 years ago this August. “I can’t make it any better than that kid did. He’s fabulous,” Old Blue Eyes admitted to talk-show host Jack Paar at the time. When I hear “Beyond the Sea” these days, I immediately conjure up a shimmering beach, Coppertone sunscreen, and bikini-clad teenagers surfing in the relentless waves of the North Atlantic.
“Crystal Blue Persuasion,” Tommy James and the Shondells, 1969. One of the most beloved singles that emerged from the remarkable Summer of ‘69, Tommy James’ “Crystal Blue Persuasion” remained in the Billboard Top 20 from late June to mid-September. In my mind, this faultless ballad would have been a conspicuous highlight if they had performed it at Woodstock; after all, the single was peaking on the charts at the time of the famous festival. The Shondells were formally invited to appear, but as Tommy James later explained: “Like utter dopes, we turned it down. We thought it would be a failure. Stupid us.” What is left all of these years later is great harmonies, searing lyrics; exemplary orchestration; a haunting melody – “Crystal Blue Persuasion” had it all. Over time, the ballad has become an iconic representation of the Summer of Woodstock. “It’s a new vibration,” indeed.
“On the Run,” Marshall Crenshaw, 1989. The ultimate summer song by one of the most underrated rockers in the last four decades, this infectious single made nary a blip on the screen when it was released 30 years ago this week. However, for Crenshaw’s loyal followers, and his legion were many – especially in the UK – this was just another one of those MC “sing-along” tunes that he cranked out like Necco Wafers throughout the 1980’s. Interestingly, Marshall Crenshaw is the only artist I’ve ever seen perform live in concert in London, Boston, and New York City. If you haven’t checked out Marshall Crenshaw’s remarkable catalog of songs, make sure you do so sometime. He’s incredible.
“Long, Long, Long,” The Beatles, 1968. Recorded between October 7 and October 9, 1968, “Long, Long, Long,” one of the most undervalued and sustaining of all Beatles’ songs, was recorded at Abbey Road Studio Number 1. In its final form, the track originally concluded Side 3 of the Beatles’ magnum opus, The White Album. After one listen it is obvious that this haunting, affecting tune is pure George Harrison, an emerging composer who was finally developing into such an accomplished songwriter that his forthcoming songs would actually surpass John’s and Paul’s work during the next half-decade.A searing, poetic confession, “Long, Long, Long” is nothing more than a draining, heartfelt reconciliation with God, which is matched by a “sighing, self-annihilating coda,” according to author Ian MacDonald. The accompanying musical ambiance emits a blanketing fog of redemptive longing throughout the piece – an impressionistic painting in musical form. Harrison, a longtime Dylan aficionado, borrows the chords from “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” turns it down a notch to 2/4 time, sprinkles in a recognizable chord change from “A Hard Day’s Night,” and ends up creating an ingenious, inspiring work. In retrospect, most Beatle fans point the ending of the number as the track’s haunting centerpiece – and it all happened purely by accident. As the group recorded the original conclusion of “Long, Long, Long,” Paul McCartney, who was playing the band’s customized Hammond organ, hit a bottom G, which caused a sudden vibration in the empty bottle of wine that had been standing carelessly on the top of the instrument’s cabinet. Listening to the instantaneous, eerie rattling of the bottle on his headset, Paul immediately turned the sound of his organ into a ghostlike C minor; Ringo instinctively began a prolonged drum roll; George intuitively changed his chord to something mirroring “A Hard Day’s Night” in 1⁄4 time, and John commenced emitting a plaintive vocal wail – all completely spontaneous and unrehearsed. Of all the songs on that unparalleled double album, “Long, Long, Long” is the one that I continue to play for its ambiguity, its profundity, and its resonance.
“Don’t Bring Me Down,” Electric Light Orchestra, 1979. Let ELO’s Jeff Lynne tell the story: “This one I made up in the studio, and I play all the instruments. It starts with a drum loop from another song that I sped up. I then compressed the shit out of it. This was the first song I did without any strings. It was exciting to work with them when we started, but after six albums, I got fed up with them. Thus, this was our band without all of the bark.” One of the more substantial hits from the summer of 1979, Lynne and company often began their concerts with “Don’t Bring Me Down” after that. Makes perfect sense.
“Good Old Rock and Roll,” Cat Mother and the All Night Newsboys, 1969. During the month of the legendary Woodstock ’69 Festival, a group called Cat Mother and the All Night Newsboys engineered an unforgettable medley to the 1950s era of early rock that became one of the more endearing songs of that August. “Good Old Rock’ n’ Roll” included cover versions of “Sweet Little Sixteen” by Chuck Berry, “Long Tall Sally” by Little Richard, “Chantilly Lace” by The Big Bopper, “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” by Jerry Lee Lewis, “Blue Suede Shoes” by Carl Perkins and “Party Doll” by Buddy Knox. The late, great Boston deejay, Bud Ballou, even created an 11:22 long single of the recording in which he spliced the original tapes with Cat Mother’s cover versions. Jimi Hendrix, who produced the song at his new Wonderland Studio in New York City, asked them to open for him during his extended 1969 concert tour. By the way, one of the guitarists for Cat Mother and the All Night Newsboys, Jay Unger, would later become an acclaimed fiddle player for his own string band and the composer of “Ashokan Farewell,” the haunting ballad for Ken Burns Civil War Series on PBS.
“Love Shack,” The B-52’s, 1989. Imagine being a visiting observer at The Greenwich Country Day School in 2003 and you enter a classroom where the teacher is in a conga-line dancing to the B-52’s “Love Shack,” with his Honors English class of 15 is trailing after him. Imagine being that teacher! Don’t fear; I came up with some convincing explanation right on the spot – with the kids entirely backing me up. John Lennon always claimed that the B-52’s were the Plastic Ono Band’s offspring. Thanks to the propulsive production by dance-rock master Don Was, the band here slapped smiles and Dixie New Wave glitter all over this bouncing beauty of a song.
“Delta Lady,” Joe Cocker, 1969. Written by Joe’s future touring partner, the great Leon Russell, who said that it was a sonnet to his love at the time, Rita Coolidge. Russell ultimately gave it to Cocker, and the ballad eventually took flight with the legendary Mad Dogs and Englishmen, Cocker’s raucous, rock-and-soul consortium, which also included several future members of Derek and the Dominoes. By the time they had nailed down “Delta Lady” on their legendary summer of ’69 tour, it had become a searing cry for love — and one of Joe’s more memorable live TV performances. Of course, who but Joe Cocker could wear bell-bottoms that are both pink and way-too-short – and still be utterly hip?
“Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now,” McFadden and Whitehead, 1979. A classic disco tune, which dominated the airwaves 40 years ago this July, this beloved Philly Sound single was the only significant hit for two veterans of the music industry. At the time, Gene McFadden and John Whitehead were songwriters and producers at Philadelphia International Records, where they worked on many of the tracks that helped define the Philadelphia Soul sound. By the late ’70’s, McFadden and Whitehead were pining to record their own material and convinced their record company to give it a go. Exhilarated by the opportunity, they thought, “Ain’t no stopping us now!” and subsequently composed this motivational song on a lark. The song went to #1 on the R&B charts and also found a home on Top-40 radio. Given its unfailing message, “Ain’t No Stopping Us Now” has remained a staple on oldies stations ever since.
“Watching and Waiting,” The Moody Blues, 1969. Written out of the same pocket of dreams as “Nights in White Satin,” this nostalgic and yet haunting tune is one of the most revered ballads in that larger-than-expected network known as MoodyHeads. The concluding song from their highly underrated disc, To Our Children’s Children’s Children, an album devoted entirely to the Apollo II moon landing that summer, here a pensive Justin Hayward ponders the meaning of life given our newfound status as space travelers. Given how spiritual many of their songs were, you could make a case that “Watching and Waiting” is on top of the pile under the classification of “heartfelt and transcendent.” As usual, Hayward is radiant on every note here, both as the song’s lead guitarist and vocalist. And when he speculates on landing on an alien planet, well, his extraterrestrial plunge into speculation is inspired: ‘Cause here – there’s a lot of room for doing/The things you’ve always been denied/So look – and gather all you want to/There’s no one here to stop you – trying.”
“Chelsea Morning,” Joni Mitchell, 1969. The irrepressible, translucent guitar accompaniment coupled with Joni’s then lilting, mostly cigarette-free lyrical voice brings a sun-splotched morning in Chelsea, her New York neighborhood to life in this masterwork, which was released 50 years ago this July. Of course, “Chelsea Morning,” describes a series of seamless moments caught unawares, a snapshot of Mitchell’s ability to freeze time and paint with sound. Joni Mitchell, a now-celebrated abstract painter, perfectly combines two of her artistic skills here and creates a still life set to sound. Throughout the teeming summer of ’69, you would often hear this tune in shops, cafes, and on sidewalk stoops through the din of humming traffic.
“Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” Van Morrison, 1989. Recorded 30 years ago on July 15, 1989, this is one of those timeless numbers, which will be played long, long after all of us are gone. While a slew of artists – including Rod Stewart – have recorded this nugget over the years, the fidelity and passion of Van’s original recording keep any other rendition at bay. After re-listening to this musical sonnet, I am reminded that being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone genuinely gives you courage. Thank you for this treasure, Van.
“Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revival, 1969. According to the great John Fogerty, the singer-guitarist-songwriter composed this rock anthem immediately after viewing the Inauguration of President Richard M. Nixon on January 20, 1969. “I had a really bad feeling as I turned off my TV, and I ended up writing ‘Rising’ in about 20 minutes. ‘There’s a bad moon on the rise’ proved sadly to be true,” said Fogerty to journalist Dave Marsh years later. This superb version was recorded live on the Johnny Cash Show on July 10, 1969, just as the rock anthem hit number one on the Billboard charts. Tom Petty astutely commented on his Sirius radio show a few years ago that you could hear the influence of Elvis’s guitarist Scotty Moore, on Fogerty as he played through on the solo. After viewing the clip, I came away thinking once again that Doug Gifford was one of the cooler drummers who played back in that era.
“I Only Have Eyes for You,” The Flamingos, 1959. While there had been scores of soloists and bands who have made their own versions of the fabled 1930’s ballad by composer Harry Warren and lyricist Al Dubin, it was the Flamingos, a significant doo-wop group from Chicago, which made it into a classic 25 years after it was first written. With the Flamingos’ unheralded tenor, the late Nate Nelson, singing the lead, and the supporting vocals of the other four members of the group, most especially the repeated refrain of the “shibushibu, “all combine to frame the unique sound of the Flamingos cover. The number one song in the US and Canada 60 years ago this summer, “I Only Have Eyes for You” was ultimately inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a single 30 years to the day after that it was first released.
“This Land is Your Land,” Los Lobos with Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir, 1989. This rambling version of the iconic Woody Guthrie song was performed July 22, 1989 backstage at the Alpine Valley Music Theater in East Troy, Wisconsin between sets on that summer’s Los Lobos/Grateful Dead tour. One of my favorite versions of this classic Americana song. It’s one of those versions you can play proudly every Fourth of July.
“Bad Girls,” Donna Summer, 1979. People sometimes forget how truly hot Donna Summer was 40 years ago this summer when she racked up 4 number one songs in twenty weeks, but her music has had a deserved revival recently. Friends of mine used to point out that there were usually hidden treasures in her lyrics that belied the pulsating and hypnotic rhythm sections that drove each of her songs. My dear friend, Jim Simpson, who was a larger-than-life figure in Boston’s gay community at the time, loved the lyric from “Bad Girls” that Donna sang so reverently: “If you had your life to live over – would you change it?” What a time it was.
“Come and Sing a Simple Song of Freedom,” Tim Hardin, 1969. At the very end of the 1960s, “Simple Song of Freedom,” a neglected but irresistible protest song, became a minor hit in the last summer of the decade. In every way, it was spirited, coy, and persuasive – a foot-tapper with a message. (It’s funny how music works. Bobby Darin, of all people, wrote this peace anthem, and Tim Hardin had a hit with it. Three years previously, Harden composed, “If I Were a Carpenter,” and Bobby Darin had a hit with that incandescent tune). A half a century later, “Come and Sing a Simple Song of Freedom” still resonates, especially with its opening stanza: “Come and sing a simple song of freedom/ Sing it like you’ve never sung before/ Let it fill the air/ Tell the people everywhere /That we, the people here don’t want war.” Amen.
“All I’ve Got to Do,” The Beatles, 1963. on the afternoon of September 11, 1963 at Abbey Road Studio Number 2, “All I Got to Do” was a song that John Lennon had composed back in the summer of 1961, which the boys had then performed live hundreds of times to audiences both at the Cavern Club in Liverpool and at scores of venues across Great Britain – from Plymouth to Leeds to Newcastle. “Because we could play the ballad in our sleep, it actually took about 15 takes for us to get the right sound. We were really tweaking it that day in the studio,” recalled John years later. After extensive experimentation with time and chord changes throughout the three-hour session, the band, according to commentator Ian MacDonald “…was very pleased when they heard the final product – with its downbeat atmosphere, and the hurt, halting mood of its nervy, rhythmic interplay of damped guitar chords and hi-hat strokes.” Unlike the other two relatively dated, forgettable songs that the Beatles recorded that afternoon in London – “Little Child,” and “I Wanna Be Your Man,” – “All I’ve Got to Do” is a lingering plea to an unidentified woman – most probably Lennon’s first wife, Cynthia. In the end, it is a 3:00 am kind of song in which regrets can be as personal as fingerprints. “I had a Smokey Robinson fetish at the time; I idolized him – still do,” the composer admitted a few weeks before his death. Ultimately, “All I’ve Got to Do” was John Lennon’s attempt to write and record the kind of susceptible, beseeching ballad that Smokey would have written and performed for and with his group, the Miracles, back then. Of course, most listeners had no idea about that at the time. All they knew was that John Lennon seemed to bare his brittle soul for the entire world to hear. I have always felt that “All I’ve Got to Do” could well have been included on Rubber Soul. It was that good.
“Polk Salad Annie,” Tony Joe White, 1969. This white swamp classic – written, performed, and produced by the late Tony Joe White – was one of the more beloved singles from the summer of ’69. Recorded at RCA Victor Studios in Nashville, “Polk Salad Annie” was produced by Billy Swan, who had a #1 hit as a solo artist in 1974 with “I Can Help.” When Tony Joe White came to England to perform it on the BBC that fall, one of the Beeb’s producers remarked, “Man, I thought you were black.” White, who was actually a 26-year-old Southern Caucasian part-time truck driver at the time, took that as the ultimate compliment.
“I Drove All Night,” Cyndi Lauper, 1989. Cyndi’s version, released 30 years ago this June, left Celine Dion’s more popular version in the dusk, mostly because of her eclectic mix of diverse sound and style, idiosyncratic lyrics, and, of course, her characteristic joie de vivre. Cyndi originally wrote the song back in 1988 for Roy Orbison, who loved it and recorded it just before he died. Lauper’s manager ultimately sold the song to Celine Dion, who subsequently had a number one single with it. Lauper’s version, while a demo still rings true all these years later.
“Evil Ways,” Santana, 1969. This beloved jewel turned out to be Santana’s first international hit, a classic that was carved into stone like a commandment in the minds of anyone under 30 back then as a result of his memorable live performance of it at Woodstock. In reality, Santana’s “Evil Ways,” was actually a cover that was originally written and recorded by percussionist Willie Bobo in 1967. For two years, it had been a relatively obscure number in jazz circles before Santana transformed it into a monster hit complete with room-shaking organ and ninety-second guitar solos. Gregg Rolie, who would form the band, Journey, four years later, provided the vocal lead on Carlos’s version. Not surprsingly, “Evil Ways” is one of those timely and timeless musical excursions.
“Chuck E’s in Love,” Rickie Lee Jones, 1979. This irresistible tune, from Rickie Lee Jones, turned out to be a massive hit from one of the most auspicious debut albums in rock history, which was released 40 years ago this June. According to singer-songwriter, Rickie Lee and her then lover and fellow musician, Tom Waits, spent a lot of time hanging out with their friend Chuck E. Weiss at the rundown Tropicana Motel in LA. Eventually Weiss, affectionately referred to as “Chuck E.,” vanished – and the couple became concerned A few weeks later, Weiss phoned Waits and explained that he was now situated in Denver and that he had moved there because he had fallen in love with a cousin in Colorado. When Waits hung up, he bellowed out to Jones: “Chuck E.’s in love.” Rickie Lee liked the sound of the sentence and immediately composed a song around it. Four decades later, she still ends most of her concerts by playing “Chuck E.’s in Love.” A toss-off line became a lifeline to sustained success.
“Like, I Love You” Edd Byrnes and Connie Stevens, 1959. On so many levels, this cultural fossil seems almost like a parody of a hip 1950s song. Of course, that’s what it was supposed to be when it was released in late May 1959. When I played it to my students one time in class, they thought that it was some kind of an unearthly outtake from Grease. Needless to say, Ed “Kookie” Byrnes was the epitome of swagger on 77 Sunset Strip while Connie Stevens was the flavor of the month for many American male teenagers at the time. If you have never listened to this minor hit, which was a Top 40 hit 60 years ago this summer, you are in for an experience. The “cool, baby” vernacular is worth the ride, so strap in tight.
“Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin), Sly and the Family Stone, 1969. Funk on top of funk with inch-thick icing. That’s Sly Stone in a nutshell, and that’s why this tune is still regularly played on the radio 50 years to the day, June 16, after it was first released in the US. In this live not-to-be-believed Soul Train version, you can see and hear why both fans and musicians revered Sly and his decidedly integrated band at the time. (Thank you, Don Cornelius, for keeping the masters of such recordings in a bank vault for more than three decades until he dumped them on YouTube.) You can also see why this unique band so galvanized Prince as a boy growing up in Minneapolis. This is both a vocal and visual tour de force.
“Dream Lover,” Bobby Darin, 1959. The number two song in the US and Canada 60 years ago this May, Bobby Darin’s “Dream Lover” would remain in the Billboard Top 20 through July of 1959. This was the second-to-last “teen single” that Bobby would have – “Splish Splash” would be the last – before he ventured into adult waters with such classic numbers as “Behind the Sea” and “Mack the Knife.” As versatile and talented a performer as any who came out of the early rock era, Darin’s genius was that he couldn’t be framed into one particular genre. He could do it all.
“Sacrifice,” Elton John, 1969. Not many American fans would know that “Sacrifice” was Sir Elton’s first number one single in the UK a year before he struck gold in the US with “Your Song.” Interestingly, Elton and Bernie Taupin have long described this number as the bookend to it. Taupin, who has also called it, “the best tune we ever wrote together,” a ballad that described a breakup of marriage where the loss of the relationship was “no sacrifice.” The video of “Sacrifice” was filmed 20 years after the song was first released, and featured both Yasmeen Ghauri and Chris Isaak.
“There Goes My Baby,” The Drifters, 1959. One of the incongruent and yet most breathtaking productions in rock and roll history, this number was a profound soul milestone, although it was more urbane and filled with Latin inflections and off-tune tympani than the standard fare back then. This caused Atlantic’s Jerry Wexler to threaten to throw the master single out the window and onto Broadway itself, because he didn’t like the unsyncopated sound. Thank God he didn’t. There’s no denying the dizzying romantic swell of the Drifters’ orchestration, which drove Wexler crazy, might be a distraction – but a lovely one. Of course, such over-the-top instrumental orchestration would then guide singer Ben E. King through his solo career when he left the Drifters later on that year.
“Grazing in the Grass,” The Friends of Distinction, 1969. The number two song in the US top 40 fifty years ago this May, the Friends of Distinction’s version of Hugh Masekela’s instrumental classic added inspired words, including the irresistible refrain, “The sun beaming down between the leaves.” Has any single so brilliantly captured the end of spring and the beginning of summer like this one? As some of you might know, the Friends of Distinction were discovered by pro football immortal, Jimmy Brown, when they were playing at a local nightclub in LA. He connected them to some friends in the music business, and the band signed a record contract as a result. While the group had two other notable hits, “Going in Circles,” and “Check it Out,” this candied cover turned out the be the Friends of Distinction most popular single. My college friends might remember that this single used to be a staple in my Oldies Shows at the legendary Rathskeller. Dance on.
Refugee,” Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, 1979. Released 40 years ago this spring, “Refugee” is the Heartbreakers at their finest, with Mike Campbell’s economic phrasing, Benmont Tench’s soulful organ playing, the lockstep rhythm section of Stan Lynch and original bassist Ron Blair and Tom Petty’s gritty, passionate vocals. As with many of the defiant lyrics on hisgroundbreaking album, Damn the Torpedoes, “Refugee” was inspired in part by a feud Petty was having with his label and cloaked his anger in relationship metaphors. Today, of course, “Refugee” is known for being one of the most revered rockers from the late 1970s. Thanks to the daily replays of his old Sirius Show which has lived on after his death, Tom Petty’s Buried Treasures, I still check in with Tom many times each week. It’s a way you can think of him delightfully in the present tense.
“This I Swear,” The Skyliners, 1959. While this barely made it on the Billboard Top 20 sixty years ago this spring, nevertheless, it is now considered one of the most superlative singles that the Skyliners, the wildly popular doo-wop group from Pittsburgh, ever produced. It’s unfettered romantic tones – sung by one of the most underrated vocalists of the 50’s, Jimmy Beaumont, makes “This I Swear” one of those singles that you listen to over and over again. As Karen Carpenter once sang, “Every sha-la-la-la/Every wo-o-wo-o, still shines/Every shing-a-ling-a-ling/that they’re startin’ to sing’s, so fine.”
“Last Soldier,” Pearl Jam, 2001. Memorial Day is the day we remember our fallen soldiers—the ones who bravely and selflessly lost their lives in service to their country. Here is a phenomenal Pearl Jam number, which honors such heroes reverently. We can never thank them enough.
“Veronica,” Elvis Costello, 1989. The best song on dementia that’s ever been produced in the rock era, Elvis and his lustrous band, The Attractions, reverently pays dutiful homage to all of those who are still here but have left us to the ravages of Alzheimer’s. Sadly, while we have made enormous progress on a host of fronts medically since 1989, dementia is still on ongoing heartbreak. “Well, she used to have a carefree mind of her own/And a delicate look in her eye/These days I’m afraid she’s not even sure/If her name is Veronica.”
“I Got the Sun in the Morning and the Moon at Night, Doris Day, Vocals – with Les Brown and his Band of Renown, 1946. While people are rightfully recalling Doris Day’s luminous work in the 1950s and ’60s as a result of her passing, her underrated work in the ’40s as a fledgling singer for Les Brown and his orchestra was simply outstanding. In this Greatest Generation classic, twenty-three-year-old Doris Day sings the most effervescent version possible from Irving Berlin’s Annie Get Your Gun. This is is like early summer sunshine – it will chase any dark cloud away. Rest in peace, Doris – and thank you.
“Baby, I’m for Real,” The Originals, 1969. We took soul music like this for granted 50 years ago when gems like this were released, but these days, we know better. We now realize that such magic is not commonplace but absolutely unique. The Originals, often called “Motown’s best-kept secret,” recorded two albums and several singles but only this and “The Bells” made to the Billboard Top 10. Of course, the group was produced by the legendary Marvin Gaye and featured original songs by Smokey Robinson and the iconic Motown songwriting team of Holland, Dozier, and Holland, including, “Baby, I’m for Real.” While it was largely ignored when it was released, it has become a staple on Sirius Radio’s Soul Town station.
“Pistachio,” Lisa Hannigan, 2009. The vastly underrated Irish singer, songwriter, and performer came out with her first solo album ten years ago this April, and “Pistachio” was one of the feature numbers and was later included in the Fargo TV series. Lilting, searing, and ethereal, Lisa’s songs are the kind that still lingers well into the night. This is a ballad from a world filled with both magic and wonder. Not a bad place to be.
“Cruisin’,” Smokey Robinson, 1979. One of Smokey’s later hits that turned out to be as smooth as a baby blanket, this was a later significant hit for the great singer-songwriter extraordinaire. Bob Dylan once pronounced him, “America’s greatest living poet.” When Smokey wrote the song, his guitarist, Marv Tarplin, had already written the music years previously. As Robinson said years later: “Marv put it on cassette and gave it to me to write the lyric. As it turned out, it took me five years to write. I had the music, and that music is so intimate and sensual, but I couldn’t get the words. Then one day I got: ‘You’re gonna fly away and I’m glad you’re coming my way.’ And then I was driving my car down Sunset Boulevard and I heard that song by the Rascals, ‘Groovin,’ and I thought, ‘That’s it! Grooving.’ But then, no, it wasn’t intimate enough, it wasn’t sensual enough for the music, and that’s when I thought of ‘cruisin.’ You’d be surprised by how many people speculate on what Cruisin’ means, ‘Cruisin” is a word that I leave up to the listener. When you’re with the person you’re with, and you feel you’re cruisin’, it’s whatever you want it to be.” As a singer, Smokey Robinson could evoke joy, sadness and their bittersweet combination with his velvety high tenor. In the end, you can’t beat this sound or that voice.
“Love Can Make You Happy,” Mercy, 1969. 50 years ago this spring, Mercy’s “Love Can Make You Happy” entered the Billboard Top 10 in late April where it remained entrenched until mid-June. This anthem to love has long been cherished by those who remember hearing it as children and teenagers for obvious reasons. Like “Get Together” and “Precious and Few,” “Love Can Make You Happy” was all about peace and understanding. However, because of problems related to copyright laws and conflicting lawsuits, the ballad has never been a major staple on oldies’ stations. In an uncertain and precarious time, this pop classic reminded us that love was always, always the answer.
“Reunited,” Peaches and Herb, 1979. While soul music has a back shelf life by 1979, ballads such as this paved the way for a revival by such newcomers as Anita Baker and Luther Vandross. That the rock and soul veterans, Peaches and Herb (as in “Love is Strange”), would have a number one hit with this song 40 years ago this spring after having not been in the Top 40 for a decade proved to be the proverbial icing on the cake. Musicians on this song included Bob “Boogie” Bowles and Melvin “Wah Wah” Ragin on guitar, Scott Edwards on bass, and James Gadson on drums. These were some of the top studio musicians of the era, and as Edwards said later on: “Most of the hits were stuff that we came up with ourselves. We’d have a basic chord chart, because at the time the people who were arranging had good ideas for the strings and horns. But as far as the rhythm section, most people, if they were smart, they left the rhythm section alone. That’s what happened with ‘Reunited’.”
“See Me, Feel Me,” The Who, 1969. In retrospect, this culminating closing track from the musical, Tommy, released five decades ago this year, might very well sum up the magic and feeling of the 1960s better than any other song out there. The ultimate adrenaline rush, the Who’s performance of this at Woodstock turned out to be a revelation. When I once played it for my class, one of the students blurted out, “Is this for real?” She could not believe that the bookends of passion and innocence could be so profound. A time it was…and what a time it was.
“(A Fool) Such As I,” Elvis Presley, 1959. 60 years ago this April, “The King” returned from Germany on leave from the Army for two weeks and hardly skipped a beat, singing this Leiber and Stoller classic at RCA’s famed Studio B in Nashville in just four takes. Initially released as the B-side to “I Need Your Love Tonight,” “A Fool Such as I” turned out to be an even bigger hit, reaching number one in the UK and number two in the United States, where it went platinum. “(A Fool) Such as I” featured the luminous guitar work of Scotty Moore, Chet Atkins, and Presley, percussionist D. J. Fontana rum-tum-drum work, brilliant keyboarding by the great Floyd Cramer, and the ever-loyal Jordanaires singing the backup musical accompaniment. When Elvis was on top of his game, there was no one better.
“I Won’t Back Down,” Tom Petty, 1989. Recorded 30 years ago this April, “I Won’t Back Down,” turned out to be the first of three top ten singles released from Petty’s biggest-selling album, Full Moon Fever, a brilliant solo album that the Heartbreakers provided the musical backdrop (except for longtime drummer Stan Lynch). Apart from this densely layered Jeff Lynne production, it all felt like a Heartbreakers record, especially on the first single, which finds Petty in a particularly defiant mood. The backstory is especially disturbing: Before recording Full Moon Fever, an arsonist burned down Tom Petty’s house while he was in it with his family and their housekeeper. They escaped and spent much of the next few months driving between hotel rooms and a rented house, but Petty was severely shaken. It was on these drives that he came up with many of the songs for the album, and the fire was a huge influence, especially on this song. Petty felt grateful to be alive but also traumatized – understandable since someone had tried to kill him. Like all great music, it still rings true after all of these years.
“King Harvest (Has Surely Come),” The Band, 1969. “King Harvest (Has Surely Come),” The Band, 1969. The Band faced a lot of pressure to top 1968’s Music From Big Pink, but just a year later, they released another seamless disc, unambiguously named The Band. This masterwork, which is now a half-century old, concludes with “King Harvest (Has Surely Come)” the poignant lament of a farmer facing a nightmare of a year. “It was the harvest time of year when Woodstock was very impressive,” said Robbie Robertson in a Rolling Stone interview years later. “Everything turned red and orange, and it just made you realize that this was the culmination of the year for so many people. That’s when it all came down, whether the year worked or not. Ultimately, when The Band goes timeless, they turn into accomplished novelists.
“That’s Why I Love You So,” Jackie Wilson, 1959. Released 60 years ago this April, this rock-soul classic, written by a then unknown Berry Gordy and performed by the great Jackie Wilson, eventually went to number 2 on the Billboard charts later on that spring. Like so many of Jackie’s soul-rock numbers, it’s impossible not to dance when a song such as “That’s Why I Love You So” is played (preferably on a jukebox).
“It’s Your Thing,” The Isley Brothers, 1969. After nine years of recording for Berry Gordy at Motown Records, the Isleys fled the record label in early 1969 and revived their own T-Neck Records, where they unleashed the free-will funk of “It’s Your Thing.” Their biggest hit, it earned a lawsuit from Gordy, who claimed he owned the song. It came out in court that it was all about hurt feelings. Ronald Isley, who wrote most of the song, liked the double-meaning of these lines, which made the song risqué and radio-friendly at the same time. In a year of great soul music, this single, which topped the charts 50 years ago this March, might very well be at the top.
“Tragedy,” Thomas Wayne and the Delons, 1959. Written by Elvis’s lead guitarist, Scotty Moore, “Tragedy” was a hit for Thomas Wayne and the Delons, when it reached number 9 in the Billboard Top 40 sixty years ago this winter. Two years later, the more popular Fleetwoods would take the tune to number one on the charts. In the end, one of the many reasons that I still love “the old songs” is that they were framed in soulful innocence. Scotty Moore later claimed that the residuals from the song enabled him to pay for his kids’ college educations. “Working for Elvis built our house. Writing ‘Tragedy’ provided my kids with a future.” We should all be that lucky – and that talented.
“Body and Soul,” Coleman Hawkins, 1939. The number one song in the US 80 years ago this March, no one ever recorded a better version of this revered standard than the venerable jazz legend. After one listen of this, it’s evident where the Bird got his style, tone, and phrasing from – the indomitable Mr. Hawkins. My music professor in college, Dr. Bill Davis, once claimed that Hawkins’ version of “Body and Soul marked the first time jazz players actually played the scales in the chord changes. While the public adored him, Coleman Hawkins is even more revered by jazz musicians around the globe as a Founding Father.
“Little Queenie,” Chuck Berry and Keith Richards Live in London, 1979. With a guitar intro that amplifies, “Johnny B. Goode”,” Chuck’s “Little Queenie” – released 60 years ago this April as single by the legendary Leonard Chess of Chess Records – shows how deftly Berry could make a variation on the theme, since he sings the second verse (“Meanwhile, I was thinkin’/If she’s in the mood no need to break it”) with a brand-new swagger. In his autobiography, Chuck wrote that the song was a fair depiction of how he was as a teenager. “That was typical of me in high school, to stand around thinking instead of acting during occasions when I’d have the opportunity to get next to a girl by dancing,” he wrote. “It’s just like me even today to wait around until it’s too late to latch on to the chance to meet a person I favor.” It went on to become one of the Chuckster’s most covered songs – everyone from the Beatles and Stones to Bruce Springsteen and the Velvet Underground – took a stab at it. In this incredible live version, Berry is backed by Keith Richards of the Stones, who play reverently behind him. I am incredibly thankful that I saw the Chuck perform this twice in person – at the old Boston Garden and the Cape Cod Coliseum. Hail, hail rock ‘n roll!
“More Today Than Yesterday,” The Spiral Starecase, 1969. The proverbial one-hit wonders, Sacramento, California’s Spiral Staircase released one album and a couple more singles before poor management and squabbles over finances caused the group to splinter by 1969. Still, 50 years ago this winter, this classic single made it to number 12 on the Billboard Top 40. A few years later, it became a “go-to” single that I played regularly at my Saturday night oldies’ dances in college. Featuring singer/guitarist Pat Upton on vocals and a Buckinghams-like horn section lead by saxophonist Dick Lopes, “More Today Than Yesterday” is still a staple on the Sirius 60’s station a half-century later.
“Rollin’ Rock,” The Tielman Brothers, 1960. Imagine how quickly American rock ‘n roll shaped the sound to young people around the world. Here, the Tielman Brothers, the first Dutch East Indies band to successfully venture into the international music scene in the 1950s, performs their classic on live television – and those who have seen it have never been the same. Obviously, they were one of the pioneers of rock in The Netherlands, later becoming famous in Europe for playing a kind of rock and roll later called Indorock, a fusion of Indonesian and Western music. If this jaw-dropping live performance could be properly placed in the Rock Bible, then it would be firmly ensconced in the Book of Genesis. Not surprisingly, when I showed it to one of my English classes recently, their collective jaws literally dropped to the floor.
“The Hammond Song,” The Roches, 1979. Produced by Robert Fripp of King Crimson fame, this impeccable single, which was released 40 years ago this year, sounds like a ballad sung at a campfire in New Hampshire back in the early ‘60’s and sung by a group of talented counselors to a cabin full of girls. In my mind, “The Hammond Song” is perhaps the most inimitable ballad recorded over the past four decades. Even the Roches didn’t dare do a follow-up to it. To add to the luster, Robert Fripp’s electric fillers fit both the time and the style of this decidedly unique recording. How truly sad that Maggie Roche, who composed the tune, died much too young of cancer two years ago. In every way, this is a must-listen.
“Peel Me a Grape,” Diana Krall, 1999. Canada’s First Lady of Jazz takes on Anita O’Day’s veritable standard and breathes such rarefied air into it that it ends up taking us all into the outer atmosphere. Sultry, steamy, and oh so sublime. The Berklee School of Music graduate is the only jazz singer to have eight albums debuting at the top of the Billboard Jazz Album Chart. That Diana Krall is also happily married with twin boys to the great Elvis Costello only seals the deal for me.
“London Calling,” The Clash, 1979. Named after the call signal of the BBC’s World Service broadcasts, the title alarm of The Clash’s third album was an SOS from the heart of darkness. When they recorded the song, The Clash — British punk’s most political and uncompromising band — were without management and sinking in debt. Their plight mirrored their country at the time, especially among a generation, which seemed to feel as they had little future. What the band ended up producing was the equivalent of Martin Luther’s 95 Theses became an anthem to a generation both in England and across the globe. Released 40 years ago this month, the single, “London Calling,” still sounds as desperate, kinetic, and fresh as it did in ‘79.
“Heat Wave,” Ella Fitzgerald, 1959. From her legendary Verve Record release, The Irving Berlin Songbook, Lady Ella adds a sense of class and pizzazz to this old Berlin standard first recorded by Bing Crosby while claiming it as her own. Conducted and arranged by Paul Weston (who wrote “Day By Day”), the disc ended up being nominated as the Album of the Year at the 1959 Grammy Awards. This is another example of Ella working as hard as she could to make a song sound effortless to sing. You can listen to it in the dead of winter and think that its a hot August day. As Frank Sinatra once said, “Ella never made a cover song. She literally reinvented it and breathed new life into whatever she was recording at the time.” As usual, Old Blue Eyes has bingo.
“Atlantis,” Donovan, 1969. Released 50 years ago this March, any comment to this Donovan single would not do it any justice. It is meant to be taken in like a tidal wave or a sudden ray of sun hidden long hidden behind a cloud. Indeed, when one of my friends called Donovan, “downright weird,” I responded by saying, “Yes, and that’s his point!” After all, any songwriter who gives birth to a song entitled, “First There is a Mountain, Then There is No Mountain, Then There Is,” is going to be decidedly peculiar. In terms of “Atlantis,” the rumor has long been that Paul McCartney sang one of the backups here, and he’s never denied it (which Sir Paul tends to do when you get the facts wrong). Ultimately, “Atlantis”is so beyond parody that it creeps into the terrain of magnificence.
“Here Comes the Moon,” George Harrison, 1979. The most delicious nugget from George Harrison’s vastly underrated self-titled album released 40 years ago this spring, “Here Comes the Moon” evokes an elongated Hawaiian night during “waipuna manawa.” A photo from the tune’s bedroom writing session sums it all up: George, shirtless with his acoustic guitar firmly in his long-fingered hands, and friend Stevie Nicks, pig-tailed and pensive, composing lyrics to George’s lullaby-like melody. According to Harrison, they stayed up all night to compose a “little prayer for a God-given little brother to the Sun.” A decade previously, George composed, “Here Comes the Sun.” after an all-nighter with buddy Eric Clapton in England, and now here he was exactly ten years later, doing the same thing with Stevie Nicks in far-off Hawaii. In both cases, the art and the moment sparked like a thousand suns.
“Mannish Boy,” Muddy Waters and Johnny Winter Live, 1979. There are a myriad of versions of Muddy playing his iconic ballad on his own, or supported by such alpha-stars as Eric Clapton, Bonnie Raitt, B. B. King, The Band, Keith Richards, Son House, and Jeff Beck, but there is nothing comparable to this live recording with the great Johnny Winter and his band recorded 40 years ago this winter. It encapsulates the blues, Americana, and life itself in six glorious minutes. On a personal note, I played this opening number and the entire live album incessantly during a ten-week summer teaching experience in Lugano, Switzerland in 1983. Amidst the glory of the foothills to the Alps, it reminded this expatriate at the time of the best of the country I was born and raised in. Don’t let any political party or individual tell you that this country is homogeneous. We are a mosaic, and each part has the potential to bringing out the best in others if we just tuned in.
“When I Die,” Motherlode, 1969. Motherlode was a Canadian pop-rock group formed in 1969 in London, Ontario. The group scored tangible success in the US with their single, “When I Die.” While it is somewhat of a Lost 45 in the States these days, it is still a revered standard in Canada – thank goodness. You could easily place it on a song-list of infectious, harmonic love songs that framed the 1960s musical world. One of my old friends once thought that it was a song that came from the musical, Hair. Not a bad bit of speculation. “When I Die” would have fit in neatly near the end of the second act.
“Wondering Where the Lions Are,” Bruce Cockburn, 1979. 40 years ago today, when I first heard this single from Bruce Cockburn played on WBCN/Boston by Mark Parenteau, I nearly drove off of Route 9. I still can’t figure out why, but it touched me to my core. Like James Taylor’s “Copperline,” there was something here as outlined by the Ottawa native that touched the hemline of both childhood and eternity. Its innocence cannot be underestimated. Ultimately, we are all children hiding in adult bodies.
“Both Sides Now,” Joni Mitchell, 1969. When musicologists look back on 1969, it will be this surreal ballad that might find its way on top of the musical pyramid in the end. While her lyrics here have been called the soundtrack of an entire generation, let’s go behind the usual and go to the more unexpected pleasures – Joni’s unusual phrasing. Anyway you look at it, “Both Sides Now” is a devilishly hard song to cover because her vocal so often seems as if it’s ‘out of time’ with the guitar; with words coming late on the beat, or hanging on too long, But then she lands on the sweet spot, and it all makes beautiful sense, exactly how Joni intends you to understand the subtlety of the lyric. It’s not just about the words, sublime as they are, it’s about how she SINGS the words here. In an entirely different genre, Sinatra had the same rare gift. If and when Joni Mitchell wins a Nobel Prize for Literature, “Both Sides Now” will be one of her siren songs that will be played in celebration that day in Oslo.
“Venus,” Frankie Avalon, 1959. I don’t care if you call this ballad a schleppy, bobbysoxing, Eisenhower-era bag of smaltz, I will defend it to the day I die. The number one tune in the US 60 years ago this winter, “Venus” is still considered a prototypical early rock song. “I still remember it so vividly,” Frankie Avalon told The Toronto Star in 2013. “I’ll never forget it. The minute I heard ‘Venus,’ I fell in love with it, and we decided to go to New York right away to record it. I sat in the back seat of the car with Bob, rehearsing the arrangement he had done on the guitar. We walked into Bell Sound in New York. We had a 7 PM recording date. It was all one track then, the band was there with you, and they played, and you sang, and that was it, buddy. No mixing and fixing like today. Back then, they pressed the acetate recording right away. I waited for it to be done until 4:00 AM. I took it back to Philly with me like it was gold. I had a little victrola, and I played it over and over again. I just knew it was going to be a smash.”It was.
“Everyday People,” Sly and the Family Stone, 1969. Goodness, what a song, and while Sly has been somewhat marginalized lately, he will always be an authentic American Master to me. This late ‘60’s anthem takes some inspiration from, of all things, Mother Goose, adding a twist to the traditional nursery rhyme “Rub-a-dub-dub.” The familiar three men in a tub – the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker – become the butcher, the banker, the drummer, and, in the spirit of the song’s message of solidarity among all people, Stone adds: “makes no difference what group I’m in.” In a modern world where exceptionalism is rampant, I always loved that Sly viewed himself as just one of us- a regular person with real-life struggles. Given his multi-ethnic band, Sly didn’t just talk it, he lived it and really did try to bring all of us together through the most universal of venues – music.
“Kathy’s Song,” Eva Cassidy, 1993. On St. Patrick’s Day, why not post a rare recording of one of the great Irish-American voices in the past 100 years, the incomparable Eva Cassidy. It is easy to tell that she just loved to sing. I love that Cassidy performed as if she had nothing to prove, no statement to make, and never an attempt to show you “what I can do.” On this version of “Kathy’s Song,” Eva’s impeccable prowess on the acoustic guitar serves as a backdrop for her soaring vocals of this melancholic Paul Simon tune, an ode to his old girlfriend, Kathy Chitty, whom he had left behind in England.
“The Sultans of Swing,” Dire Straits, 1979. There are a few occasions when I hear a song for the first time and screech, “Oh, my God!” Not surprisingly, “The Sultans of Swing” was one such occasion. At the time, I thought that Lou Reed and Bob Dylan had somehow morphed into one human being in the form of Mark Knopfler. In reality, I was not too far off there – at least for a spell. Interestingly, Knopfler got the idea for the single from watching a wretched club band perform one dreary evening in Ipswich, England. According to legend, he ducked into a bar where the local bar band was closing out the night to an audience that was maybe four or five drunks unaware of their surroundings. The hapless group ended their set with the lead singer announcing, with no apparent irony, “Goodnight and thank you. We are the sultans of swing!” Said Knopfler: “When the guys said that there was something really funny about it to me because Sultans – they absolutely weren’t. You know they were rather tired little blokes in pullovers.” And the rest, as they say, is history.
“Time of the Season,” The Zombies, 1969. This is quintessential Zombies – haunting vocals; impeccable musicianship; melodic hooks; and surprising lyrical twists. Built around the bassline heard in the intro, this song has some very effective and unusual structural components that helped it endure. The bass riff is punctuated with a hand clap and the breathy “ahhhh” vocal. These elements add sonic texture during the verses, and also show up in the two interludes. And while most hit tunes beat you into submission with a prevailing chorus, this one doesn’t. The full chorus – “It’s the time of the season for loving…” takes just eight seconds and is repeated three times. The number 3 song in the US fifty years ago this March, I wish I could somehow venture back in a time machine and personally convince the Zombies not to break up after this single was released. After all, they were just getting started.
“Come Softly to Me,” The Fleetwoods, 1959. Fleetwood members Gary Troxel and Gretchen Christopher were waiting for a lift home from high school in Olympia, Washington by her mother one day in the spring of 1958. Impulsively, Troxel started humming, “Dom dom, dom domby doo wha…” and Gretchen noticed that it was the same chord progression that she used in a song that she had just finished writing, “Come Softly.” She asked him to slow his tempo, then sang her song atop Troxel’s humming. Its nursery-rhyme-like veneer was downright hypnotic, and the melodies oh, so soothing. It took the fledgling group six months to ultimately record it, but it was well worth it. Sixty years ago this winter, it was the number one song in the US and Canada. “Come Softly to Me” still works its magical charm on most listeners all these years later.
“Lotta Love,” Nicolette Larson, 1979. Cancer is a bitch, and Nicolette Larson should still be here manufacturing great singles such as this gem, which was released 40 years ago this February. That she has been dead for over 21 years now is simply unacceptable. This live version of the Neil Young classic from Comes a Time is superb in every way. Yes, Young and Larson were a couple briefly while this song was both composed and then recorded. Her stellar work on Neil’s Comes a Time garnered her a recording contract with Warner Brothers, and while she never had another significant solo hit after “Lotta Love,” she was still a revered artist in the genre because of her prodigious pipes.
“Try a Little Tenderness,” Three Dog Night, Live, 1969. Most bands realized that they wouldn’t dare do a cover of the great Otis Redding’s 1965 signature song. Four years later, however, Cory Wells, the lead singer of Three Dog Night, finally mustered the gumption to take one of soul music’s most iconic ballads straight-on. The band also had the gall to sound like the Funk Brothers on speed and support Wells’ singing as if their lives depended upon it. This electric cover not only became a staple for Three Dog Night in their concerts over the next decade, but they then released it as a single 50 years ago, where it entered the Billboard Top 40. As the great Sam Moore – of Sam and Dave fame – commented at the time, “Otis would not only have approved their interpretation, he would have dug it.”
“Blue in Green,” Miles Davis, 1959. From his masterpiece, Kind of Blue, “Blue in Green” was recorded on March 2nd, 1959, in New York City at The Church, the legendary CBS Recording Studio on 30th Street. Wild Bill Evans, who starts the tune on the piano and ends it, and with Miles and John Coltrane and the bass up under it, played this circular movement inside of arrangement. Miles’ tone throughout is both classical and rhapsodic through the mute he has on his horn. Miles said later that the aching loneliness throughout the song tries to capture the back road of his childhood in the rural South, a dusty, dusky place in Arkansas when Miles and his cousins walked in the darkness of a woody area. All of those memories that he had inside of him surfaced like a spring bulb in “Blue in Green.”
“Hello, It’s Me,” Nazz, 1969. This heartfelt single, released in mid-December 1968, had become a popular single by February of ’69, where it had grooved itself into the consciousness of the American youth psyche. Todd Rundgren’s vocals and guitar work were impeccable; his supporting cast also rose to the occasion. Of course, Todd also composed the song, which takes us through a phone call where the singer breaks up with a girl. It’s a remarkably realistic account, devoid of sweeping metaphors typically found in “breakup songs.” In this instance, we hear the one side of the phone call, which starts with the familiar greeting, indicating they’ve been together a while. Then they have “the talk,” where he hashes out why they can’t be together and lets her know that she should have her freedom. As what has happened to us all in real life, all he can ask in the end is that she thinks of him every now and then. Like many at the time, I thought that “Hello, It’s Me” was a single by the Association. When Rundgren was apprised of this by fans, later on, he took it as the ultimate compliment.
“Scar Tissue,” The Red Hot Chili Peppers, 1999. Released 20 years ago this February, “Scar Tissue” was the first single released by the then newly formed Red Hot Chili Peppers. From its impeccable guitar work to its infectious rhythm section to the hypnotic lyrics, this number proved to be an exemplary introduction by a most important band of the present millennium. The video of the single shows the band driving through a desert and was directed by French director Stephane Sednaoui. As you will see, the band’s members are all battered and bruised and the neck of John Frusciante’s guitar is broken, a metaphor for the song itself.
“What a Fool Believes,” The Doobie Brothers, 1979. Kenny Loggins co-wrote this with the Doobies’ lead singer Michael McDonald in the winter of 1978. Loggins eventually put his version on his album, Nightwatch, which was released in July 1978, five months before they included it on their Minute by Minute disk. Loggins’ version was never released as a single; the Doobies’ version went to number one. By the way, Michael Jackson added some background vocals on this song. Ultimately, this was the 500th number one song of the rock era, which began in 1955 when Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock” soared to the top of the charts 24 years previously. From the first day I heard these lyrics – “He came from somewhere back in her long ago; the sentimental fool don’t see tryin’ hard to recreate; what had yet to be created once in her life; she musters a smile for his nostalgic tale; never comin’ near what he wanted to say; only to realize it never really was” – I nearly plotzed.
“Reflections of My Life,” The Marmalade, 1969. A top-five song 50 years ago, this Beatlesque number with John Lennon-like lyrics (“the changing of sunlight to moonlight; reflections of my life…”); a McCartney-like melody from his Revolver period; and a Harrison guitar riff, which sounded right out of Abbey Road. Even the drums sound like Ringo! All in all, “Reflections of My Life” proved to be the high-point for the group from Glasgow who never had another substantial hit thereafter. Given how good this single was, maybe that was enough. One thing’s for sure – you hardly ever hear a song like this nowadays – and that’s a bloody shame. (RIP to lead singer, Dean Ford, who died on January 2, 2019, in Los Angeles at the age of 72).
“Hold the Line,” Toto, 1979. Raise your hand if you thought that this song was written and recorded by ELO? I thought so for weeks when it was released until I heard that Toto recorded it. Given their prowess in songs such as “Africa,” and “Rosanna,” this great single was also top ten hit for the band from Southern California 40 years ago this February. From this lens, Toto was made up of six enormously talented musicians who had backed up such legends as Boz Scaggs, Aretha Franklin, Barbra Streisand, and Jackson Browne in the 1970s, but it was their vocal work that came to define them as a band in the subsequent decade.
“Dazed and Confused,” Led Zeppelin, 1969. American balladeer Jake Holmes may not have gotten credit for inspiring Led Zeppelin’s “Dazed and Confused” until 2012 when it all spilled out, but without his original trippy folk song, this Zeppelin mega-hit would not have existed. Holmes wrote a very different version of this song for his 1967 solo record, The Above Ground Sound. Jimmy Page heard it while Holmes opened for The Yardbirds and then later took his psychedelic interpretation to Led Zeppelin, which featured his iconic guitar bowing and wild instrumental breakdowns. In doing so, Page and his band refitted it and made it brand new. These days, of course, “Dazed and Confused” is a deserved rock staple.
“Take Me To The River,” Talking Heads, 1979. Apart from this being a brilliant piece of music, “Take Me to the River” is one of the most wonderfully inventive interpretations of an original song, up there with Devo’s version of The Stone’s “Satisfaction” and Nazareth’s cover of “This Flight Tonight” by Joni Mitchell. Like many Talking Head songs, it is the rhythm section that makes this song a much-deserved classic. In every way, this version is both timely and timeless.
“Nothing But a Heartache,” The Flirtations, 1969. Even though “Nothing But a Heartache” made it to only number 34 in the Billboard Top 40 fifty years ago this February, its popularity as an oldie has made it one of the more popular singles from the 1960’s era. Formerly known as the Gypsies, a girl-group from South Carolina, they reformed in London and became known as the Flirtations after that. Impeccably produced by British musical mogul, Wayne Bickerton, this earth-shattering single later became a staple at dance clubs in both Europe and the US. Hearing it these days, most assume the Supremes performed it. Sorry, folks, it’s the Flirtations!
“She Say (Oom Dooby Doom),” The Diamonds, 1959. Ultimately, I have never outgrown doo-wop music; it is as enchanting to me now as it was when I first heard this exquisite single as a four-year-old back in the winter of ‘59. This number turned out to be Barry Mann’s first top ten single for the Brill Building musical phenom. According to the singer-songwriter himself, an even younger Carole King – then known as Carol Klein – helped Mann compose the bridge. Thankfully, “She Say (Oom Dooby Doom),” was then given to one of the greatest doo-wop groups in history, the Diamonds, who made it into a Top 20 hit sixty years ago this winter.
“A Tribute to Buddy Holly,” Mike Berry and the Outlaws, 1961. When 22-year-old Buddy Holly perished in the crash of a private plane outside of Clear Lake, Iowa on February 3, 1959, more than 40 tribute songs to him were recorded over the years, including Don Mclean’s “American Pie.” Two years after Holly died, Mike Berry, a fledgling skiffle player from Northampton, England, wrote and recorded this poignant tribute, which remains the best song to Holly’s memory. According to Berry, the bridge refrain he croons… “was channeled right from Buddy. It almost sounds corny, but it came to me in a dream.” (Kudos to drummer Carl Betz for mirroring Jerry Allison by duplicating the “Peggy Sue” tat-at-tat-tat percussion). I agree with the late George Harrison: “A Tribute to Buddy Holly” captures the essence of his music, his death, and his legacy. Of course, Buddy Holly lives on in his music as this singe emphatically implies.
“Wichita Lineman,” Glen Campbell, 1969. An absolutely seamless production from composer Jimmy Webb, vocalist and guitarist Glen Campbell, and LA’s legendary Wrecking Crew, who provided the brilliant orchestration – especially the string section – which were arranged by the incomparable Quincy Jones. Because of the neo-mystic quality of the number, it was not a surprise that it ended up being the best-selling single released during the winter of 1969. Given the somewhat quirky subject, the backstory of “Wichita Lineman” is just as absorbing. According to Jimmy Webb, he was driving along the Kansas-Oklahoma border during the summer of 1968 when he saw a lonesome telephone lineman working atop a telephone pole. This incident gave him the idea for the ballad. That evening, he composed it in a hotel in Tulsa, Oklahoma and then called his buddy, Glen Campbell, “Glen,” exclaimed Webb, “I’ve got your next number one song!” Finally, “Wichita Lineman” contains one of my favorite lines in the entire rock and roll canon – “And I need you more than want you/And I want you for all time…” As a lyricist, you dream or writing a line so prescient.
“Moonlight Serenade,” Glenn Miller and His Orchestra, 1939. This dreamy ballad was Glenn Miller’s breakout hit, but it was actually years in the making. Miller wrote the melody in 1935 when he was a trombone player in Ray Noble’s band. When he finally assembled his band, Glenn and his orchestra famously recorded it. “Moonlight Serenade” made it to number 1 on the US Billboard charts 80 years ago this January, and it stayed there until mid-spring. (This, of course, comes on the heels on the news that Glenn Miller’s long-lost plane might well have been discovered off the English coast.) In late November 2005, as my mother lay dying, I played “some of the old songs” for her in her hospital room. When this familiar tune came on, she said, almost by association, “Before the war…the Outer Beach in Chatham….visits to the Totem Pole at Norumbega Park in Auburndale with your Dad…when life seemed both simple and good.” Yup, you’re right, Mum.
“Yeah, Man,” Sam Cooke, 1964. In the last year of his life, the King of Soul fearlessly experimented with soulful R&B and rock, a heady mix that wouldn’t clearly emerge until a decade later with the Tower of Power. Here is one of the last records he recorded, “Yeah, Man,” which Arthur Conley later used in 1967 as the template for “Sweet Soul Music.” All of Cooke’s “regulars” backed him here, including his soundman, Sonny Bono, and producer Lou Adler, along with the incomparable Wrecking Crew. Sam Cooke was not only a brilliant singer and songwriter but an authentic visionary as well. On what would be his 89th birthday, Sam is still The Man.
“You Should Have Been There,” Marshall Crenshaw, 1989. One of my favorite Marshall Crenshaw singles ever, sadly, “You Should Have Been There” turned out to be a little blip on the musical screen when it was released 30 years ago this winter. I always believed that if Crenshaw had released his singles in the 1960s, he would have been a gigantic star, but timing in life is everything, isn’t it? With his Beatlesque sensibility and his passion for coy lyrics and deft musicianship, ala Buddy Holly, no wonder he is a revered musician among pop veterans. I do think that Crenshaw, who played Holly in the movie, La Bamba, and who played John Lennon on Broadway in Beatlemania, produced the kind of music that Holly might well have generated if he had not died so young.
“Love is Strange,” Buddy Holly, 1959. Originally recorded on Holly’s brand-new Ampex tape recorder in his Greenwich Village apartment 60 years ago today on January 19, 1959, Buddy’s longtime producer, Norman Petty, later added the orchestration supporting his acoustic guitar after he died in a tragic plane crash on February 3, 1959. Of course, “Love is Strange” was a crossover hit by American rhythm and blues duet Mickey & Sylvia, which was released in late November 1956 by the Groove record label. The tune was based on a guitar riff by the legendary Bo Diddley, which Holly duplicated here. Sadly, it was the last song that Buddy ever recorded, which is why Norman Petty reverently included the eerie organ background, performed by his musician wife, Vi. Holly’s mother, Ella, later said that it sounded as if her son was singing to her from heaven. If you haven’t ever heard this incredible record, you will notice that Buddy plays the song at 2/4 time, a radical departure from the original rockabilly tune that Diddley had originally written it in a few years previously. When Paul McCartney hosted a Sirius show on Holly’s memory a few years ago, he played “Love is Strange,” and remarked, “It’s almost as if Buddy knew something was going to happen.”
“Someday,” Sugar Ray, 1999. When I first heard “Someday,” it sounded like a 1960s AM single; melodic; wistful lyrics, crisp phrasing; and sound musicianship. I later learned that the band, Sugar Ray, who hailed from Newport Beach, California, intentionally copied the ethos the 1960s Californian Pop Sound, so it all made sense then. Released 20 years ago this year, “Someday” is one of those songs” that instantaneously brings a smile to my face. Perhaps it’s because that my two sons asked me to turn up the radio when it came on one morning when we were driving off to another hockey game that they would then play at the outdoor Greenwich, Connecticut Skating Rink! In retrospect. I would give anything to go back to those fleeting times. Ultimately, of course, music is the enduring window to the past.
“Touch Me,” The Doors, 1969. From their underrated album, The Soft Parade, this unique single was composed by Robby Krieger, and its riff, according to Krieger, was influenced by, of all things, the Four Seasons’ “C’mon Marianne!” The tune became notable for its extensive usage of brass and string instruments to accent Jim Morrison’s vocals, including three measures of the lead singer’s crooning like Sinatra, and a powerful solo by saxophonist Curtis Amy, who put a bow on the entire proceedings. Ultimately, “Touch Me” reached #3 on the Billboard Hot 100 and #1 in the Cashbox Top 100 in January 1969 (the band’s third American number-one release). Here in this incredible live TV performance in 1969, Jim Morrison starts with the proceedings with a visionary poem, and then plays it straight, much to the relief of the Nelson Riddle Orchestra, who backed up the Doors on this Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour appearance. For real.
“Lonely Teardrops,” Jackie Wilson, 1959. After listening to this mesmerizing original recording, Elvis Presley supposedly said to Wilson: “I have no idea why they call me, ‘The King.’ You are.” (Years later, this anecdote became the basis of Van Morrison’s iconic rocker, “Jackie Wilson Said.”). Sixty years ago this January, this early soul classic was the number 1 song in America. “Lonely Teardrops,” which was written and produced by a young Berry Gordy, was used as the proceeds to launch Motown Records as a corporate entity in 1960. In September 1975, when Jackie Wilson was performing at the Latin Casino in New Jersey, he collapsed from a combined heart attack and stroke smack dab in the middle of a rendition of “Lonely Teardrops.” Wilson never recovered and remained in a coma for eight more years until his death on January 21, 1984. What tragic irony that the last words Jackie sang before collapsing were, “My heart is crying, crying!” The audience at first thought that his fall on stage was part of the act and they started to wildly cheer him. Soon, however, It became evident that something was terribly wrong. Upon his death, Stevie Wonder said famously, “Before there was Marvin Gaye, there was Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson.”
30 years after Jackie came out with “Lonely Teardrops,” actor/musician Howard Huntsberry paid homage to the essence of Jackie Wilson in his brilliant portrayal of him in the Ritchie Valens’ biopic, La Bamba. This is simply mesmerizing!
“Another Brick in the Wall, Part II,” Pink Floyd, 1979. A few years ago, the song’s lyricist, Roger Waters, admitted in an interview in The London Times, “You couldn’t find anybody on the planet more pro-education than me. It is the air I breathe. But the education I experienced in an English boys’ grammar school in the 1950s was exceedingly controlling – and, in my mind, that demanded rebellion. The song is meant to be a rebellion against an errant government, against people who have power over you, who are wrong. Ten it absolutely demands that you rebel against it.” As an educator for nearly four decades, I have never thought that “The Wall” was never about education or bad teachers. It was always about authority and mind control in a world dominated by an explosion of jingoistic language, thoughtlessness, and collective sociopathy. If “The Wall” were to be updated in 2019, its laser beam might well be shining on Fox News.
“Time Has Told Me,” Nick Drake, 1969. The archetypal musical cult figure, Nick Drake produced just three solo albums in his tragically compressed life, and yet he is revered in his native UK and behind for producing music that is continually stripped bare, honest, soul-to-soul. As we all have discovered over time, life is a heavy emotional burden for many of us. Those who feel deeply, see deeply, need deeply. Nick was one of the burdened. This single, which was released 50 years ago today on January 4, 1969, reminds us that life is fleeting.”Time has told me/You’re a rare, rare find/A troubled cure/For a troubled mind/And time has told me/Not to ask for more/For someday our ocean/Will find its shore…” While he died much too young in 1974, Nick Drake’s music has been rediscovered and is played regularly, especially in Europe, where he is now an iconic musical figure.
“Giving You the Best That I Got,” Anita Baker, 1989. The Queen of Smooth Soul retired a few years ago, but the great Anita Baker ended up leaving an impeccable legacy. Three decades ago, the joy that wrapped around each of her ballads was like an unexpected warm sunny day in the midst of a wintery cold front. Ultimately, “Giving You the Best That I’ve Got” turned out to be Anita’s biggest-selling hit, scoring #1 on both the Adult Contemporary and R&B charts, and number 2 on the American Top 40. Composed by the legendary Motown songwriting team of Holland, Dizier, and Holland, Baker took it and added some detail at the beginning and had the tempo sped up, producing a peppier version. A quintessential crossover song, this tune ended up becoming a staple of jazz, pop, and light rock stations thereafter. Happy 2019, everybody!
On Patriots Day, April 19, 1972, the Red Sox played the Cleveland Indians with veteran Ray Culp on the mound for the hometown team. When Boston made the final out in a losing, 1-0 effort, I dashed from my seat in the center-field bleachers and made a beeline to nearby Kenmore Square in order to witness the end of the Boston Marathon.
As I was standing on Boylston Street – a few blocks from the finish line – a strapping young man with dripping-wet, white-wheat hair, suddenly joined me. When he then informed me that it was his first time seeing the famed BAA Marathon, I asked him was he a player on the Indians (figuring that his hair looked cleanly washed from a very recenter shower and I knew all of the Red Sox players by sight). He tossed me a smile and said, “Yes, my name’s Buddy Bell.”
Earlier that day, the young man had just made his major league debut and here he was now watching the 76th running of the Boston Marathon with me. On his first day as a big league player, the Cleveland Indians’ rookie stood next to me watching thousands of gifted men and women run for glory. We chatted amicably throughout the entire experience.
Buddy Bell ended up with more than 2,500 hits in the majors in a career that would span the next 17 years. Later on, he would serve as a big league manager for a decade for three franchises. But on one of the two or three most memorable days in his baseball career, Buddy Bell and I were just spectators in a teeming crowd of spectators, supporting hundreds of runners completing the ultimate race.
“Nice to meet you, Shaun,” the Cleveland Indians player said as he left. “This was quite extraordinary.”