At the corner of Pond Road and Lake Farm Road in Orleans, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in the backyard of a residential home, you can find remnants of a former baseball field where hundreds of boys played competitively from 1930 to 1984. A traditional Cape Cod cottage now sits in the former outfield, with weathered shingle siding, a centralized chimney, and double-hung windows and shutters.
Recently, after explaining my connection to the property, I asked the owner if I could walk about his yard a bit. After listening to my story, he smiled and nodded affirmatively.
“It would be an honor for me if you did so,” he replied.
The land of the former camp that I walked on that day had an inspiring beginning. In the fall of 1929, Mrs. Margery Plimpton Felt, a veteran New York City private school teacher, felt the need to bring some of her Manhattan-resident students up to her Cape Cod summer home and give them a summer experience on a country farm with animals.
Ultimately, eight boys opened the camp in 1930, situated less than a mile from downtown Orleans, a modest, picturesque community on the forearm of the Cape, 30 miles south of historic Provincetown. As Lake Farm Camp grew, buildings were added; each camper had his own garden and participated in a variety of animal-related jobs. Activities included riding, swimming, arts and crafts, and baseball.
In July 1966, when I sauntered onto the baseball field at Lake Farm Camp as a visiting pitcher representing Namequoit, a nearby overnight summer camp, I was 11, tall for more age, gangly, and steeped in the wellspring of what was then America’s national pastime. It was a scrubbed-up summer’s day when my teammates and I showed up to play an afternoon contest against rival Lake Farm. I quickly surmised that the field there was uneven, ladened with a sandy undertow in the outfield, and contained a rickety backstop that pleaded for restoration.
Within minutes, my coach, an engaging; effusive counselor named Sandy informed me that I would be the starting pitcher that afternoon, and that I should promptly begin to warm up. A minute later. I motioned to my buddy, Teddy Freeman, Namequoit’s unswerving catcher, to commence tossing the ball back and forth with me in warm-ups.
That afternoon, I wore a blue baseball cap with an N for Namequoit on the bill. A fresh and saltwater sports camp for boys 8-15 since 1925, Namequoit was subsequently directed by the venerable Art Farnham, who would remain as the camp’s Philosopher King for more than four decades. Five-plus decades ago, sailing, swimming, and tennis were featured with sailing instruction and racing held in nearby Pleasant Bay. Baseball was one of the primary athletic land activities for most boys, with tennis, riflery, and archery being the others. In 1966, campers hailed from more than 30 states and 10 foreign countries. At the time, locals viewed Namequoit as a stately Lincoln Chrysler compared to Lake Farm’s more modest Dodge Dart.
After the Namequoit nine got off to a quick start with three runs in the top of the first inning, I loped out and began scraping on the plastic rubber on the mound. Instantly, I noticed that the ground there was hard-topped and flat. It reminded me of pitching on my driveway back in my hometown of Wellesley, Massachusetts. “Home advantage,” I thought. When I then quickly dispersed the first three batters easily, I grinned as I sprinted off the mound.
Like a cloudless, warm summer’s day without humidity, the days that you can call “perfect” are few. (In retrospect, it seems as if by accident or Godly intervention when everything appears flawless.) Nevertheless, a couple of times during each baseball season, my performance level mirrored those rare, unblemished days that come around as if by happenstance. I smiled as I left the mound after easily striking out the side in the first. It was going to be one of those days.
As the innings flew by, I began sprinting out to the mound and started pounding the required seven warm-up pitches to catcher Teddy Freeman. On that day, I had the eyes of a killer. My self-confidence was supreme; this evidential factor clearly intimidated the opposing batters who reluctantly approached home plate as if they were about to have a cavity filled without novocaine. Later on, when I dispatched all three Lake Farm batters with three more strikeouts in the fourth inning, Coach Sandy patted me on the shoulder and bellowed, “All right, Kell! 12 up, 12 down – all K’s!”
By that time, of course, I knew that something special was occuring on the little ball field at Lake Farm. I not only had perfect control of my fastball, but my “wrinkle,” a cut slider I had literally learned how to throw in a book on baseball techniques, was unabting. For most Lake Farm batters who had never seen any movement in their young lives, it must have been terrifying, especially given the fact that I was throwing from 46-feet -the standard Little League distance at the time.
For much of my four-decade plus pitching career, I characteristically pitched defensively and used control and changing speeds to counteract any hitting prowess. (When my youngest son, Max, asked me how I pitched in high school, college, and beyond, I replied, “Nibble, nibble, nibble.”) On this day, however, I was not only blowing people away but getting batters out with a slider that inevitably broke over the plate at the last instant. More than a few batters ran away from my slider as it approached Teddy Freeman’s chocolate-brown catcher’s mitt. In the vernacular of modern baseball lingo, the Lake Farm batters were “decidedly overmatched.”
In the bottom of the fifth, safely in front by seven runs and having not given up a hit or walk at the time, I became careless after an easy first strike. When I then hung a slider that perished at the plate and was subsequently whacked by a grateful batter down the left-field line, I disgustedly ran off the mound and bore in on my left fielder. When the rocket landed a foot foul, I breathed a visible sigh of relief. I then called time, took a deep breath, and then reverted to my previous mindset. Nothing else mattered now but the next pitch. A moment later, I struck out the offending hitter on a fastball, which tied him up on the inside part of the plate.
As I began my trek to the mound to begin the last inning, Coach Sandy, whose enthusiasm was such that he discarded the ancient superstitions of baseball and reminded me out loud that I had struck out every batter thus far, I winced reflexively. He then motioned to the boys on the bench to root like crazy for me. I huddled with catcher Teddy Freeman and informed him, “Nothing but gas now. They are looking for the slider.” Less than five minutes later, I had not only struck out the side, but I had done so on nine pitches. A perfect inning to end a perfect game.
As the last strikeout was called, my teammates swirled around me like lemmings and hoisted me into the air – the only time I would ever be carried off any baseball field. Coach Sandy, who would eventually lose his innocence along the Ho Chi Minh Trail two years later, hugged me hard as we headed for the camp van. “You will never have another day like this one, Shaun,” he exclaimed. He was right. Out of the crooked timber of life, I had briefly stumbled upon that one straight line. On an obscure baseball field in Orleans, Massachusetts, I experienced unadulterated perfection by striking out all 18 batters I faced.
These days, when I now find myself caught between the harrowing bookends of a worldwide pandemic and the deterioration of a traitorous, bigoted President, I sometimes find myself tossing and turning at night. I then close my eyes and imagine that I am an eleven-year-old boy once more, fearless, unvanquished, and divine as I pitch against Lake Farm Camp one more time. Considering that Lake Farm and Namequoit both closed down as camps more than 30 years ago when tax-assessment prices began to skyrocket on the Cape, such dreams are far-fetched at best. Usually, though, I drift right off to sleep.
Given all of the faulty, second-rate days I have experienced since July 1966, I now realize that perfection is a stick with which to beat the possible. My many defeats and a handful of victories prove that I have always been a player. However, because I experienced authentic magnificence for a brief, shining moment in July 1966, I also know that the baseball gods temporarily welcomed me to the rarefied air of immortality. All of these years later, it still feels like heaven.
From January 1, 2020 to December 31, here are my Facebook music posts for the year. In the end, it was music that got us through such perilous times. The King of Gonzo Journalism, Hunter S. Thompson, once wrote in Rolling Stone: “Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.” These songs, which I focused on here gave me more fuel throughout this momentous, disturbing period of time. Maybe they will for you as well. (I will add more music “at the bottom” by month through the end of the year. Promise!
“Feeling Good,” Nina Simone, 1965. Initially written for the Broadway musical, The Roar of the Greasepaint – The Smell of the Crowd, this uplifting tune became Nina Simone’s when she recorded it on her 1965 album, I Put a Spell on You. At the time of the album’s release, “Feeling Good” wasn’t put out as a single. When the song was used in the UK for a fabric softener advertisement in 1987, however, it became well known and was subsequently released as a single, which reached number 40 on the UK charts. Hearing the words: “It’s a new dawn/It’s a new day/It’s a new life for me/I’m feelin’ good,” in Simone’s legendary croon is enough to get off the couch and do something you’ve always wanted to do in life. Happy 2020, everyone!
“Save Me,” Fleetwood Mac, 1990. The last single that the supergroup ever had that made the Billboard Top 40, this was the feature song of their 1990 album, Behind the Mask. A Christine McVie-penned ballad, it followed the model of both their Fleetwood Mac and Rumours releases, with a California-pop sensibility, searing lyrics, and a truly infectious hook. While Lindsey Buckingham had left the band by then, their crisp musicianship was still very much in evidence. Although their 16-year reign as the kings and queens of pop, nevertheless, among Fleetwood Mac fans, this is one of their favorites. Incredibly, I don’t think I’ve heard it on any radio in nearly 20 years. Still, “Save Me” reminds us all how brilliant a songwriter Christine McVie was in her prime.
“Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head,” B. J. Thomas, 1970. The number one song in the US and Canada on January 7, 1970, Burt Bacharach and Hal David wrote this much-beloved ballad for the film Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid, starring the late Paul Newman and Robert Redford. The first million-seller for the iconic songwriters, it was Dionne Warwick who suggested to Bacharach and David that they have B. J. Thomas record it. “It needs a strong male voice, and B. J. would do a fabulous job with it,” she told Burt Bacharach at the time. What Warwick didn’t know then was that Bob Dylan and Ray Stevens had already turned down the song, and, so, Thomas quickly flew to Los Angeles to put it on wax. Ultimately, “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” won the Oscar as Best Song at the following year’s Academy Awards ceremony.
“Escape (The Pina Colada Song),” Rupert Holmes, 1980. Rupert Holmes has written several Broadway plays, including Say Goodnight, Gracie and The Mystery Of Edwin Drood. He has also composed ballads that have been performed by Barbra Streisand, Judy Collins, and Britney Spears. He created a television series called Remember WENN and even authored a novel entitled, Where The Truth Lies. His works have won Tonys, Emmys, and Edgars. Despite all this, Rupert Holmes is best known for this singular novelty tune, which was the number one song in the US and Canada four decades ago this January. As he said in a New York Times article a few years ago, “If the worst thing that can be said about me is that I am a failed Renaissance Man, then my life has been a success.” Sometimes the most scenic roads in life are the detours you didn’t mean to take.
“Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad?” Derek and the Dominoes, 1970. Eric Clapton’s pulsating string work is matched by Duane Allman’s seamless slide work in one of the more underrated pieces of a nearly perfect album. An original Clapton composition (written with the vastly talented Bobby Womack), “Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad?” was Clapton’s at his best, an artist whose talents finally reached the potential that he had shown previously as a member of the Yardbirds and Cream. Incredibly, though, his work is overshadowed here by Duanne Allman, who steals the tune like a thief in the night. In the end, genius is talent sent on fire.
“Mr. Blue,” The Fleetwoods, 1960. The follow-up to the high school trio’s “Come Softly to Me,” “Mr. Blue” was a Top 5 hit in January 1960. To the overproduced music of the twenty-first century, this is quite a contrast to the purposeful flat response sounds. Why drench the vocals in reverb when it can sound this clear? Stll, it’a a musical fossil from a different time. By the way, one of our neighbors had a 1958 Chevy Impala, which was a deep-seated blue. Yes, he called it, “Mr. Blue.” This song harkens back to a simpler, optimistic, more scrubbed-up time. Of course, our parents had experienced sixteen years of stress between the Great Depression and World War II, so they were more than allowed to put their collective heads in the sand for a spell. After all, it felt good.
“Boomerang,” T-Bone Burnett, 1980. The lead song from one of the truly underrated LP’s of the 1980’s, T-Bone Burnett’s Truth Decay, “Boomerang” should have catapulted the veteran singer-songwriter-producer to Top 10 status, but sadly, the single fell flat at the time. A single in the best Sun Records tradition, guitarist Billy Swan rocks here while T-Bone’s vocals sound as if Bob Dylan had just inhaled helium. The bridge here contains one of the great hooks of 1980. For real.
“We Didn’t Start the Fire,” Billy Joel, 1990. While Billy Joel once described this unique number-one song as “terrible musically – it’s like a mosquito buzzing around your head” – “We Didn’t Start the Fire” still made it to the #1 position in the US charts 30 years ago this January. The lyrics, of course, are a stream of consciousness list of events that the Piano Man felt his generation was not responsible for at the time. A lot of the references are to the Cold War – a problem that his generation inherited. Joel composed the song after a conversation with John Lennon’s son, Sean, and then wrote out the list in a rat-ta-tat style similar to Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” I am one of perhaps 100,000 history teachers who have used Billy’s lyrics from “We Didn’t Start the Fire” to teach twentieth-century American history. His allusions, by the way, are both broad and brilliant: “Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac/Sputnik, Chou En-Lai, Bridge on the River Kwai…” It should be noted that in concert, Joel began to tinker with some of the names and events in updated versions. For instance, he replaced “payola and Kennedy” with “payola and Perry Smith” because, after all, JFK was mentioned later on. (For the uninformed, Perry Smith was the central killer of the Clutter family of In Cold Blood fame). “We Didn’t Start the Fire” became a go-to song for Joel whenever he toured thereafter.
“Nite Owl,” Tony Allen and the Champs, 1955. This doo-wop classic is tough as nails –the fool has become wise, oh, those heartbreaks in the night, and then there’s a flip of the finger. The “strolling” vibe is used as a reversal against the nite owl– yeah?? Why keep comin’ home late?? Well, seeya, “So long, call me maybe.” To complete this little gem, the chorus mocks Tony Allen by sounding like, well, owls. The wonderful irony here is that as New York City tough as Tony Allen and the Champs sound, they hailed from Southern California and were nothing like our heroes here. While “Nite Owl” was a Top 20 hit 65 years ago this winter, I have never heard it play on any oldies stations but Sirius 50’s in recent years. As the late Kookie Byrnes would say, “It’s the ginchiest!”
“Remember,” Free, 1970. The legendary English blues-rockers were the musical comets of a generation. They only released three albums and were really only together for four years until they disbanded and formed two other groups, Bad Company and Back Street Crawler. Still, the next time you’re taking the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame seriously, remember Paul Rodgers, one of the greatest pure singers in rock history, is still not there. Paul Kossoff’s killer lead-guitar playing, and the vastly underrated bassist Andy Fraser fierce underpinnings, brilliantly frame Rodgers’ searing vocals. In retrospect, “All Right Now” gave Free a hit for the ages. “Remember,” its more sedate follow-up proved worthy in every way. Released 50 years ago this January, the number would ultimately be featured by the band at the legendary Isle of Wight Concert later on in the summer of 1970.
“Monday Morning Rock,” Marshall Crenshaw, 1983. Crenshaw famously portrayed Buddy Holly in the 1987 film La Bamba, but he has more in common with the ’50s rock and roll legend than just the glasses and handsome but boyish face. If Holly had not died tragically in one of the music’s most infamous air disasters and had continued to develop his career through the ’60s, it’s easy to imagine that his work might have sounded like this rollicking, guitar-rich tune, which would undoubtedly be a major hit if it was released in, let’s say, 1966. Nor surprisingly, Crenshaw’s vocal style soars in an organic fashion similar to Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day.” If you haven’t heard this number before, do yourself a favor.
“One More Time,” Sam Cooke, 1960. On what would be his 89th birthday, here’s a somewhat obscure Sam Cooke single, which didn’t do that well when it was released 60 years ago today, January 22, 1960, and yet has aged, like so many of his releases, like fine wine. A voice made from silk and velvet, Sam’s earnestness moves this tune into the realm of soul, a genre that he helped to invent. Aretha Franklin once called him the most handsome man she ever knew, and an individual worthy of a voice that only God could create. That’s all you need to know about Sam Cooke.
“The Story in Your Eyes,” the Moody Blues, 1970. One of the most underrated bands in rock history with one of the truly great singer-songwriter-guitarists at the helm, Justin Hayward, wrote, played the lead guitar, and sang the lead vocals on this track from the exceptional album, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour. If you take the time to listen to it, you will note the layers of instruments, the layers of backing harmony vocals, the overlapping complementary tones, the infectious melody, and the overall propelling quality of the composition. Not surprisingly, the listener’s attention is never on one instrument for more than 8-10 seconds, and can quickly be drawn away to at least two other layers. Music is not made this way anymore because artists are specialists; it took an “everyman” such as Justin Hayward to construct anything this elaborate and creative. Like Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Moody’s ended up producing seven amazing albums in five years (from 1967-72) – and then crashed and burned. However, they did regroup and produced three more solid albums over the next decade. Here’s one longtime Moodies’ fan who loves “The Story in Your Eyes” as much today as when it was first recorded a half-century ago!
“Flip, Flop, and Fly,” Big Joe Turner, 1955. It’s always crazy when you discover a song recorded on the day you were born, and so here’s mine. A few years ago, I was informed by an old music pal that the revered R&B rock pioneer, Big Joe Turner, recorded one of his more famous hits at the legendary Atlantic Studio, which was then situated at 234 West 56th Street on the afternoon of January 28, 1955 – my birthdate. A walking, singing antidepressant, Big Joe could coax away any stormcloud with his heady combination of swing, R&B, and rock and stomp. I was fortunate enough to see him perform live at a Richard Nader Rock and Roll Revival concert at the old Boston Garden in 1972. He was introduced by Bo Diddley and was followed up by Bill Haley, Fats Domino, Little Richard, the Shirelles, the Coasters, the Five Satins, the Drifters, and Chuck Berry. It was like a Founding Fathers Convention minus Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley.
“Children of the Night,” Richard Marx, 1990. Richard Marx wrote this song after learning about the Children Of The Night Foundation, which works to help victims of sex trafficking and to save children forced into prostitution. Privately funded, it was started by the sociologist Dr. Lois Lee, who took action after seeing kids on the streets of Hollywood who had been left behind. Proceeds from this song helped fund the Children Of The Night Home, opened in Van Nuys, California in 1992. To this day, the shelter provides schooling in addition to shelter and other services for kids age 11-17 who were forced into prostitution. Dr. Lois Lee, the founder of the foundation, said recently in a recent LATimes interview: “Thousands of children have Richard Marx embedded in their hearts and their memories because of his generous gift that helped build the Children Of The Night Home where over 3,000 children to date have lived. Many of the children still talk about Richard and their experience in the studio singing with him on the ‘Children Of The Night’ song.” As someone who knows and relishes the width and breadth of twentieth-century music, I have long known that there are very few mediums, such as music, which can bring a spotlight to injustice. I wish more twenty-first century artists would take note on issues such as bigotry, intelligence, global warming, and economic inequality. Not surprisingly, “Children of the Night” turned out to be a prodigious single for Richard Marx 30 years ago this winter.
“Psychedelic Shack,” The Temptations, 1970. When you think about it, the Temptations were one of the most socially-conscious bands of the mid-to-late 1960s groups. Their care and empathy rang true in all of their music, which was inevitably both enthralling and evocative. In retrospect, “Psychedelic Shack” could be seen as a unification anthem, welcoming all people in this all-encompassing, welcoming place where you can free your mind and be accepted for who you are. The band’s composers at the time, Barrett Strong and Norman Whitfield, composed the ballad for the Temps, and purposely got at least one line of lead vocals for each of the band members, including the Temps’ revered bassman, Melvin Franklin, who appropriately sang the “so low you can’t get under it” riff. And, yes, this single, which stalled at number 2 fifty-years-ago this week, became the inspiration for the B-52s “Love Shack,” a little more than 19 years later.
“The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine,” Spoon, 2005. Despite hailing from Austin, Texas, Spoon’s sound has always been decidedly British New Wave – ala Elvis Costello and the Attractions, Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds, and The Squeeze. Some critics compared the sound to the Beatles’ “Glass Onion,” from The White Album – a deft comparison, especially in the tune’s psychedelic bridge, which sounds right out of the Lennon/McCartney and George Martin playbook. Interestingly, Spoon’s emerged from the long-term aesthetic partnership between the lead singer and songwriter Britt Daniel and drummer Jim Eno, in whose Austin studio the band rehearsed and prepared most of their numbers. From this lens, this is rock ‘n roll at its finest.
“Hey Bulldog,” The Beatles, 1968. Because of the simultaneous demands of a musical soundtrack, a movie that was in post-production, and the fact that the Beatles needed a B-Side to “Lady Madonna,” the band spent ten hours on February 11, 1968, composing and recording one of their more unheralded numbers, “Hey Bulldog,” a filler that turned out to be something much more. Because they were clearly under the gun, the recording was a joint effort between John and Paul, based on a lick that Lennon had previously worked on but hadn’t completed entitled, “Hey Bullfrog.” The songwriters ended up consciously writing it in the style of Barrett Strong’s legendary 1960 soul twisting, “Money,” famously covered by Lennon in a kick-ass Beatles recording five years before. “We wanted to rock out on that track as we had in Hamburg and at the Cavern Club. We wanted to blow out a tune; no holds barred,” Lennon told journalist Lester Bangs years later. To further emphasize the casual ambiance of the song, John scribbled down some lyrics while Paul furiously worked on the remaining musical chords. At the beginning of the session, when Paul played a Paul Jones’ rocker to John called “The Dog Presides,” which featured a series of dogs barking, McCartney began to howl playfully as well. Lennon liked it so much that they changed the title and then added the yelping at the end of the number. “The producers of Yellow Submarine were clamoring to finish the song in order to put it on that album, plus we wanted to get ‘Lady Madonna’ out as a single, so we were in a full-out sprint that day,” McCartney admitted in The Beatles Anthology. For one line in “Hey Bullfrog,” Lennon had scribbled, “Some solitude is measured out in news.” When they sang from the lyrics’ sheet as they recorded the tune, the band misread John’s chicken-scratch as “some kind of solitude is measured out in you.” Because they were working against the clock, they kept the mistake in the final version, much to the delight of Lennon, who loved the unintentional error. “Paul’s bass line on ‘Hey Bullfrog’ was probably the most inventive of any he’d done since Pepper, and it was well played. Harrison’s solo was sparkling, too – one of the few times that he nailed it right away. His amp was turned up loud, and he used one of his new fuzz boxes, which made his guitar absolutely scream,” wrote the late Geoff Emerick, the Beatles’ longtime engineer in a memoir written four decades after the group had disbanded. Ultimately, they had patch-worked a tune that reminded us all that they could still rock with the best bands on the planet. “Hey Bulldog” would be a precursor to the heavy rock they would produce in both the Let it Be and Abbey Road sessions. As Mick Jagger later exclaimed, “When we first heard the song, I thought, ‘That’s a record that we would have made.’” For any other band this would be their most famous song. For the Beatles, it’s a throwaway filler for a cartoon.
“Send One Your Love,” Stevie Wonder, 1980. Stevland Hardaway Morris entered the decade of the ‘80’s with this faultless recording, which was the number one song in the US and Canada 40 years ago this February. Like so many of his soul classics, this one unfolds musically, lyrically, and spiritually. The ultimate optimist, Stevie once said, “Being blind, you don’t judge books by their covers. You go through relatively insignificant things, and you pick out the more important things.” Berry Gordy, who worked with Smokey Robinson, Jackie Wilson, Marvin Gaye, and Diana Ross, once professed, “Stevie was the most innovative person that I’ve ever known. But also unique with his tones and his voice quality. He cannot be duplicated.” When all is said and done, his canon of music will be compared to Berlin, Porter, Ellington, and Ray Charles.
“You’ve Got What It Takes,” Dinah Washington and Brook Benton, 1960. The initial collaboration of two iconic early figures in rock history, this infectious single, released 60 years ago this winter, launched a side-career for both soloists, who would subsequently release more than 15 songs together until Washington’s untimely death in December 1963 (trivia fans – Washington was married to NFL great, Dick “Night Train” Lane at the time). Please note that at the 2:00 mark of “You’ve Got What it Takes” – after the end of a bridge lyric that Brook sang – he comes in on Dinah’s line. Benton then makes a funny comment, and she keeps singing! After completing the line, she states, “Now, it’s you.” They both assumed the sound engineer would erase this, but veteran producer Clyde Otis liked the ad-libbed byplay, and it became part of the released version. Marvin Gaye later said that Washington and Benton’s teaming inspired Marvin and Tammi Terrell to record soul-inspired duet hits together in the mid-to-late 1960s. Talk about the ultimate compliment!
“Buddy Holly,” Weezer, 1995. I have always loved this upbeat tribute song to Buddy Holly and the era of the 1950s, written and recorded 35 years after his tragic demise by the LA-based pop band Weezer. This heralded video of the song spliced footage from the 1970s television sitcomHappy Days with Weezer performing in a remade “Arnold’s Drive-In.” The video achieved heavy rotation on MTV and went on to win four MTV Video Music Awards, including Breakthrough Video and Best Alternative Music Video, and twoBillboard Music Video Awards. The video was also featured on the companion CD for the Microsoft Windows 95 computer operating system! Not surprisingly, Bill Gates was a huge Buddy Holly fan growing up in the late 1950s.
“Handyman,” Jimmy Jones, 1960. While many people think that James Taylor first sang this infectious number originally, it was actually Jimmy Jones, a veteran R&B singer who first had a hit with it 60 years ago this month. If you take the time to listen to Jones’ seamless version, you will note that he sang “Handyman” in a smooth yet soulful falsetto modeled on the likes of Clyde McPhatter and Sam Cooke. Interestingly, Jones composed “Handyman” in 1955 and recorded it back then to very little acclaim. As he joked later on, “I had to make a cover of my own song for it to gain any attention.” Jone’s new version went to number #2 on the US charts, and his follow-up single, “Good Timin’,” went to #3. Seventeen years after Jone’s falsetto classic, James Taylor took his more sensuous version of the song all the way to number 1.
“Crazy Thing Called Love,” Queen, 1980. Freddie Mercury reportedly wrote this single during a 10-minute flash of inJohn Lennon said that hearing that on the radio inspired him to get back to record inspiration, using his self-described, limited guitar-playing abilities to create a fantastic rockabilly number worthy of Elvis Presley himself. Of course, Freddie plays the role of “the King” to the fullest vocally as well, crooning in a low register so playful you can practically see the curled lip and slicked-back hair. As an added attraction, he coaxed his Queen band members to sound like the Jordanaires as a reassuring backdrop. I love that Freddie insisted on having this hit single recorded in 1950’s mono. How apropos! By the way, John Lennon said that hearing “Crazy Thing Called Love” on the radio one spring morning in New York City in 1980 inspired him to get back to recording.
“Sixteen Reasons,” Connie Stevens, 1960. The desire of countless teenage boys while she played Cricket Black on the popular television detective series,Hawaiian Eye, Connie Stevens had a side music career as well, where she had four Top 10 hits in 1960-62. “Sixteen Reasons,” her best-selling-hit, which reached number 3 on the Billboard Top 40 sixty years ago this winter, was typical fare for the times – teenage angst coupled with the bookends of fantasy and desire. Her breathy voice was intentional and probably caused another 100,000 people to buy this 45/single. To her enormous credit, because of her All-American sexuality, Stevens became a regular performer on subsequent Bob Hope USO Shows. Ultimately, Connie came to briefly symbolize …“the girl back home.”
“(I Wanna) Rock With You,” Michael Jackson, 1980. A teenaged Michael Jackson at the start of his out-of-space-and-time solo career, “Rock With You” was his second short film, filmed in 1979 for the second No. 1 hit single from Off the Wall. The Bruce Gowers-directed short film, featuring Michael dancing in a sequined jumpsuit and matching boots against a set of shimmering lasers, was ranked No. 6 on a list of Michael’s 20 greatest videos by Rolling Stone Magazine. In February 1980, there was simply not another song in existence that was played more around the world than this one.
“Box of Rain,” The Grateful Dead, 1970. Because Phil Lesh was at his very best vocally even as the Dead is at its height musically, it is no wonder, then, that this country-folk tune has withstood the clutches of time. 50 years ago this month, Lesh’s father was dying of cancer, and he yearned to write a song for him before he died. After composing the musical part of the ballad, he gave it to Dead wordsmith Robert Hunter, who then added the lyrics. Happy, Phil was able to perform it live to his Dad in his hospital room. “His smile was as big as the room itself,” Lesh remembered later. While we all seem to reside in a box of rain these days, we still provide the sun and the moon amidst such capriciousness.
“Tonight I Fell in Love,” The Tokens, 1960. The legendary doo-wop group was initially known as the Linc-Tones when they formed in 1955 at Lincoln High School in Brooklyn, which also included the likes of fellow students Neil Sedaka and Carole Klein (AKA Carole King). By 1960, newly formed, the Tokens were signed by Warwick Records, where they then recorded “Tonight I Fell in Love.” This sugary single was recorded 60 years ago this winter, but it took several months for it to garner national attention, reaching the Top 10 that fall. Over the next seven years, the Tokens would have nine more top 20 hits, including their beloved, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” but it was this quintessential soul-tinged number that launched the group’s popularity as a national vocal quartet. This is one of those songs that remind us all how very different music was in pre-Beatles America. It is also a ballad that should now be considered a classic.
“I Can’t Tell You Why,” The Eagles, Live – 1980. On July 15, 1982, I attended a Jimmy Buffet summer outdoor concert on Boston Common. An hour into the show, Buffett introduced his bass player that evening, Timothy B. Schmit. The former Eagles bassist then performed a seamless version of “I Can’t Tell You Why,” which he had composed and also then sang lead vocals on the single two years previously. Before computers made music by algorithm, songs were composed by the human heart. On this exquisite love-sonnet, Schmit’s quivering vocals tug at the soul while Glenn Frey’s swirling guitar solo puts a bow tie on the entire affair. To Jimmy Buffet’s everlasting credit, he stood in the background while Schmidt took over that night for this one breathtaking ballad. When I heard it performed live on historic Boston Common, I wish it could have lasted forever.
“No Time,” The Guess Who, 1970. Composed by the Guess Who’s famed lead guitarist, Randy Bachman, & featuring lead singer Burton Cumming’s mournful-tenor voice, “No Time” was a Top Ten hit for one of Canada’s more prominent bands 50 years ago this February. Ultimately, this ballad served as a kind of mini- epitaph to the 1960s, a tune about moving on and finding one’s true calling. Originally inspired by the Buffalo Springfield’s “Rock and Roll Woman” and “Hung Upside Down,” the lick to “No Time” later became the inspiration for the theme song of TV’s Law and Order! (Yes, Bachman received partial writing credits for the theme). As Randy Bachman stated years later, “Music is all about sharing and then creating your corner of such a world.”
“Harbour Lights,” The Platters, 1960. No doo-wop group did covers better than the incomparable Platters, one of the mosy beloved doo-wop groups of the Eisenhower Years. In “Harbor Lights,” they took this 1937 standard first recorded by Frances Langford and created an entirely different song. From this lens, it was Tony Williams’ aptitude as a crooner who drives the bus here, but the orchestration by the then-fledgling Wrecking Crew adds the essential ingredient here that makes this number a veritable classic. (Not a bad day for the Wrecking Crew. After they cut “Harbour Lights,” the session-musician band then backed up Sam Cooke on “Wonderful World” two hours later!)
“Smooth,” Rob Thomas with Carlos Santana, 2000. Rob Thomas and Itaal Shur specifically wrote this for Carlos Santana, thinking that the late George Michael would be the tune’s lead vocalist. As fate would have it, however, Thomas decided to record his vocals as a demo with Satana’s distinctive guitar riffs providing the framework to a single that was the number one song worldwide twenty years ago this month. The ultimate irony is that the vocals don’t sound like Thomas at all. He was imitating how he thought Michael would have sung it had he provided the lead. While this was Santana’s first number one song in more than a decade, it turned out to be a career-maker for Rob Thomas, whose solo career then took off after the release of “Smooth.” By the way, George Michael was flattered by Thomas’s “imitation” and thought that it was “truly brilliant.”
“Didn’t I Blow Your Mind This Time,” The Delfonics, 1970. Written and produced by legendary producer, composer, and arranger, Thom Bell, and his musical partner, William Hart, this 1970 soul hit is the quintessential example of the Philly Sound, which was embodied in Bell’s groups, the Delfonics, the Stylistics, the Soul Survivors, and LaBelle, featuring Patti Labelle. In this 1971 Soul Train appearance by the Delfonics, their TV version here captures the majesty of the ballad, especially in the vocal performance of William Hart, a performer who also had a hand in the careers of other Philly artists from Billy Paul to Hall and Oates. (Yes, he lip-syncs, but they all did on Soul Train.) I once heard Laura Nyro do this number live – and I thought I had gone to heaven. Of course, if I had had the privilege of seeing the Delfonics perform it in person, I would have been in the upper reaches of nirvana. In every conceivable way, “Didn’t I Blow Your Mind This Time” is a consummate single.
“Little Jeannie,” Elton John, 1980. Released 40 years ago this March, “Little Jeannie” was one of the few Elton John megahits that he didn’t compose with his longtime lyricist Bernie Taupin. The lyrics came from his friend, songwriter Gary Osborne. In 1978, Elton wrote the songs for his LP, A Single Man with Osborne, while Bernie Taupin worked on the Alice Cooper album, From The Inside. Elton’s 21 At 33 record contained tracks from both Osborne and Taupin, and most of Elton’s subsequent output would have words by Bernie. Looking back at his time away from Taupin, Elton said that while there was some friction between them, it was not a breakup, but more of a sabbatical, as John was in London and Bernie was residing in Los Angeles at the time. From the great groove Sir Elton concocted here, he added a heady mix of acoustic and lead electric guitars, a tenor sax, three trumpets, and a Moog synthesizer to the entire affair! A seamless production from an artist on top of his game.
“Pennies From Heaven,” The Skyliners, 1960. Take a standard big band song, rev it up to a rock and roll beat accompanied by a group who was the forerunner of the Manhattan Transfer; insist that one of the most underrated vocalists of early rock, Jimmy Beaumont, sing it; make Lou Adler the song’s producer; ask LA’s Wrecking Crew to provide the orchestral accompaniment, and you have musical magic in every way. While this number was a Top Ten hit 60 years ago this year, “Pennies From Heaven” has recently received significant airplay on Sirius ’50’s over the past few years. In retrospect, you have to ask yourself, “Why didn’t this song make it to number one?”
“Who’ll Stop the Rain?” Creedence Clearwater Revival, 1970. John Fogerty composed this much-admired ballad, which, for an entire generation, was interpreted as a protest song against the Vietnam War. Given the decidedly apocalyptic lyrics, this assumption was understandable. However, 40 years after the tune was recorded, Fogerty told interviewers that “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” was actually about Woodstock! An attendee who also performed at the legendary music festival in August 1969, Fogerty watched the festival-goers dance in the rain, muddy, naked, cold, huddling together as the rain “kept on pouring down.” Consequently, when Fogerty arrived back home in California after that weekend, he sat down and composed, “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” making it not a Vietnam protest at all, but the recounting of the Woodstock Festival experience that Creedence performed so brilliantly five decades ago last August!
Longtime music fans might recall that “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” was actually the B Side to the great rocker, “Travellin’ Band,” which contained one of my favorite lines in rock history: “Listen to the radio/Talkin’ ’bout the last show/Someone got excited/Had to call the state militia.” Ah, double-sided hits. They were like baseball doubleheaders when you paid for a single admission ticket – welcomed pleasures.
“Nice and Easy,” Frank Sinatra, 1960. Recorded on March 12, 1960, this was another seamless collaboration between The Voice and his bandleader extraordinaire, Nelson Riddle. Sinatra’s understated vocals here contrast magically to the pulsating score, deftly arranged by Riddle. Like so many great Sintra songs, there is an effervescence – a passion here – that is both light and “gay” (in the old sense). “Nice and Easy’s” subtle shading of darkness is also there to remind listeners that the ride is never permanent – so enjoy it while you can. Even on a rainy March day, this one will make you beam like a summer moon.
“Morning Morgantown,” Joni Mitchell, 1970. The opening salvo from her groundbreaking 1970 recording, Ladies of the Canyon, “Morning Morgantown” is a paean to everyone’s hometown, a nursery-like dirge to the comings and goings of a community at the rise of day. Joni Mitchell never lived in Morgantown, West Virginia – so let’s put that to rest. (In the end, it’s much more about her hometown – North Battleford, Saskatchewan). Like the impressionistic songwriter she was at the time, Joni’s sonnet reminds us all that you cannot find peace by avoiding life. While Ladies of the Canyon was released 50 years ago this winter and included such masterworks as “Big Yellow Taxi,” “Woodstock,” and “The Circle Game,” I have always thought that this vivid and enchanting hymn was the perfect launch to an extraordinary album.
“Cathy’s Clown,” The Everly Brothers, 1960. While many remember their near-two decade split, the music remains. In 2004, Phil Everly said famously, “Don and I are infamous for our split, but we’re closer than most brothers. Harmony singing requires that you enlarge yourself, not use any kind of suppression. Harmony is the ultimate expression of love.” In that vein, “Cathy’s Clown” is indicative of the Brothers Everly’s timeless entries; there are memorable melodic hooks, impeccable harmonies, and spotless musical accompaniment. Of course, Phil and Don Everly were admired by everyone from Buddy Holly to Sam Cooke, and their Nashville-tinged productions proved to be the launching point for country rock. 60 years this April after this infectious single hit number one on the Billboard Top 40, the Everly Brothers still rock!
“Danny Boy,” Eva Cassidy, 1990. Take an old Irish standard, which had been covered by more than 1000 artists, record it for your parents on St. Patrick’s Day at a local Maryland recording studio in 1992, and scratch out a cover, which no artist before or since has ever surpassed. Ultimately, Eva Cassidy was an authentic songbird. When you celebrate St. Patrick’s Day today, lift a cold one up to Eva Cassidy. In every way, she was an Amhrán Éireannach.
“Please Let Me Wonder,” The Beach Boys, 1965. Fifty-five years ago today, on March 19, 1965, this exquisite Beach Boys ballad was released by Capitol Records as an A-Side.. While its accompanying single, “Help Me, Rhonda,” far outsold it, nevertheless, this remains one of Brian Wilson’s most beguiling tunes. “Please Let Me Wonder” not only spotlights Brian’s seamless composing abilities, but it also highlights his astonishing vocal range as well. In a 2011 interview, Brian recalled: “I wrote this at my apartment in West Hollywood. As soon as I finished, I felt I had to record it, so I called up my engineer, Chuck Britz, and woke him up. ‘Please Let Me Wonder’ was then recorded at 3:30 in the morning. I drove to the studio in the middle of the night and recorded it. That song was done as a tribute to Phil Spector’s music. It definitely has an excellent straight-ahead feel to it. I knew I loved that song from the moment it was finished, and I’ve loved it ever since.” So have many others.
“What I Like About You,” The Romantics, 1980. This retro song was released 40 years ago this spring and ended up being played continually throughout the spring – mostly on FM stations at the time – who adored its undertones. An authentic attention grabber, “What I Like About You” could well have been recorded by the Kinks or the Zombies 15 years previously. Given that the Knack had just touched on the same ground months earlier, a lot thought that it was a Knack release at the time, but to the Romantics’ credit, they do a stellar job here, especially lead singer and drummer Jimmy Marinos, who gave his best Ray Davies impersonation.
“Girl,” the Beatles, 1965.On November 11, 1965, the Beatles laid down the last track of arguably their best album, Rubber Soul, with John’s emphatic answer to Paul’s “Michele,” a brazen forerunner to the 1980s Europop style entitled simply, “Girl.” Until he met Yoko Ono, John’s dream girl was distinctly German, working-class, and resembled the very real Astrid Kirchherr, a doe-like, flaxen-colored beauty from Hamburg who, during the band’s time in Hamburg, had not only helped the Beatles with their image but pushed them into such previously unexplored areas as existentialism. A photographer by trade, Kirchherr stumbled upon the Beatles one spring night in the spring of 1960 – when they were performing as the house band at the Kaiserkeller Club – and became immediately smitten by “their talent, humor, and intelligence.” Within a month, Astrid began dating Stuart Sutcliffe, John’s best friend from Liverpool Art College, who had joined the group as its bassist three months previously. By necessity, the Beatles had let their hair out – they were continually in short supply of cash overseas – so Astrid decided to give them stylized cuts, which shaped their unwieldy manes into mop-like locks. Thus, the legendary Beatle hairstyle began in Hamburg in 1960 because of the artistic flair of Astrid Kirchherr. Over the years, Beatle fans have pointed out that both Cynthia Powell and Patti Boyd, John Lennon and George Harrison’s first wives, eerily reassembled Astrid, who ended up living with Stuart Sutcliffe in Hamburg, until he tragically died of a blood clot a year after the Beatles returned to England for good. “All of us liked Astrid – and were in love with her as well,” admitted George Harrison three decades later. Musically, there’s a lot to love about “Girl.” The tune moves from a C minor verse to an A major chorus, with a whiff of an accordion provided by the irreplaceable George Martin. The ballad almost sounds like a waltz – it had a quality to it that harkens back to the band’s fifteen months that they spent in Germany in the early sixties. The “tit tit tit” vocals that frame each bridge in “Girl” are decidedly sophomoric and teasing. “We were just trying to see how far we could go to pull another fast one on the censors at the time, and the song was about a girl after all,” Harrison admitted in a 1987 Rolling Stone interview. However, the girl that John sings about turns out to be intelligent, in control and is both elusive and confounding. Because Lennon’s untamed mother, Julia, and his steadfast Aunt Mimi, were the two most significant female figures growing up and were also exact opposites, the female species, in general, remained mysterious to him. Ending up with someone as paradoxical as Yoko Ono, then, was actually no surprise. “It was as if you put Julia and Mimi in a blender, it came out as Yoko,” McCartney once commented. Of course, John and Paul have a particularly inspired duet on the refrain of “Girl, “which is accompanied by a series of audible intakes. There is a story there. According to John, Astrid used to shampoo her hair using strawberry extract, a forerunner to the fruit-scented shampoos that would come out on the market a generation later. John so loved the aroma that whenever he saw Kirchherr, he would race up to her and begin impulsively smelling her blonde locks. John later claimed that “Girl,” a haunting ode to an unknown woman, was his subconscious reminding him that there was a female out there who would one day match the object of desire he sang so reverently about. Incredibly, John would meet that individual, Yoko Ono, a year to the day that this ballad was recorded. One final moving note – on September 22, 1980, at the Hit Factory Studios in Midtown Manhattan, a follow-up to the tune entitled “Woman,” an elegy to the girl who had grown up was recorded. It would be the second-to-last song that John Lennon would produce before he was assassinated. When John airmailed the final outtake to Paul in England, McCartney reportedly burst into tears, especially when he heard the Beatlesque underpinnings that framed that song. (How ironic that I posted this on Facebook just hours before it was announced that Astrid Kirchherr had died in Hamburg at the age of 82. RIP to the Fab Four’s “Girl.”)
“Into the Mystic,” Van Morrison, 1970. One of Van’s most unwavering ballads, “Into the Mystic” an Otis Redding-style reverie with acoustic guitar and horns, was featured on his epic 1970 album, Moondance. While this is supposedly about a sailor yearning to come home to land to his beloved, “Into the Mystic,” in a metaphoric sense, expresses the notion that life is infinite. Accordingly, the acceptance of that is inevitable, especially if love has been your clarion call all alone. Thus, there is nothing to fear. Van recently said that as he was writing this, he changed the line from “Into the Mist” to “Into the Mystic.” It’s the little things that makeup a masterpiece.
“Theme from A Summer Place,” Percy Faith and His Orchestra, 1960. Old folks like me will remember that “Theme From A Summer Place” was actually a hit in the late winter and early spring of ‘60, with the co-release of the movie by the same name. The irony, of course, is that in the minds of those Americans who remember, this melodic, saccharine instrumental embodied everything good about the 1950s. As the legendary writer-historian, David Halberstam, pointed out, however, below its placid surface, there was a palpable social ferment occurring in the 1950s, from the civil rights movement through the sexual revolution to the rise of rock-and-roll and the beatnik generation (which begot the 1960s hippies). Still, as long as America’s grandfather, President Dwight D. Eisenhower, was in charge, the hamburgers were on the grill, the Oldsmobile was warming up in the driveway, and it was time to take Johnny to his Little League game and Suzy to her Brownies’ meeting.
“United Together,” Aretha Franklin, 1980. Forty years ago this April, amidst languishing record sales, Aretha left Atlantic for Clive Davis’s Arista Records with the desire to revive her commercial fortunes. Her first single under the Arista label was “United Together,” a poignant and searing ballad, which reached No. 3 on the R&B charts in the fall of 1980. These days, outside of her legion of fans, “United Together” is vastly underrated. That is a travesty because this is a ballad that will warm your heart in every way! Happy 78th birthday to the late Queen of Soul.
“Sink The Bismarck,” Johnny Horton, 1960. Sixty years ago this April, the late Johnny Horton’s ballad, “Sink The Bismarck,” which was the title song hit by the movie of the same name was a top ten hit in both the US and Canada. As a five-year-old at the time, I was entranced by this single – from the repeated, big-gun-sound to Johnny Horton’s Elvis-like snarl. The historical narrative of the tune was my first foray into the genre: “In May of 1941, the war had just begun; The Germans had the biggest ship, they had the biggest guns; The Bismarck was the fastest ship that ever sailed the sea; On her deck were guns as big as steers and shells as big as trees.” Sadly, Horton, who had already enjoyed two international hits with “The Battle of New Orleans” and “North to Alaska,” would be dead just six months after “Sink The Bismarck” was released in a collision with a truck near Shreveport, Louisiana. He left three children and his widow, Billie Jean Jones, the widow of Hank Williams, Sr. Johnny Horton was just 35 years old when he died on November 11, 1960.
“Call Me,” Blondie, 1980. Written for the film, American Gigolo, this became the all-time bestselling single for Debbie Harry and Blondie, reaching number one in the US 40 years ago this spring. While the song is about a prostitute, it summons images of a six-lane highway, an open convertible, and a-Debbie-Harry-like woman behind the wheel. Some musicologists have called it the last authentic single of the disco era.
“A Rainy Night in Georgia,” Brook Benton, 1970. Written by the late Tony Joe White of “Polk Salad Annie” fame, this soul classic proved to be a powerful comeback for Brook Benton. At the time, he had been a significant soloist in the late ’50s and early ’60s but hadn’t had a Top 40 hit in more than six years until he released this single 50 years ago this spring. Brook’s impeccable interpretation of the lyrics here is such that you actually feel the wet and cold in his voice. “A Rainy Night in Georgia” is an underrated masterpiece in every way.
“Frenesi,” Artie Shaw and His Orchestra, 1940. “Frenesi,” which was the number one song in the US 80 years ago on April 10, 1940, where it remained like a fixed star at that position until mid-June. I’ve had more than a few musical friends say to me that while Benny Goodman played music, Artie Shaw played the clarinet. While I think that they were both geniuses, Shaw, in my mind, was the best jazz clarinetist thus far. Not long before my mother died in 2005, she recalled seeing Shaw and his Orchestra performing this in concert at the legendary Totem Pole at the old Norumbega Park in Auburndale, MA. “That music was all so sublime,” she sighed. Yes, Mum, it was.
“That Girl Could Sing,” Jackson Browne, 1980. Released 40 years ago this spring, this vastly underestimated rocker turned out to be Brown’s emotive dirge to a former girlfriend, the legendary singer-songwriter, Laura Nyro. While Nyro was typically silent about their 1970 relationship, Jackson ended up paying tribute to her a decade after their romance had ended.“Talk about celestial bodies/And your angels on the wing/She wasn’t much good at stickin’ around/ but boy she could sing.” Two shimmering talents who found a planet to share for a spell
“The City of New Orleans, Steve Goodman, 1970. The late great John Prince once called Steve Goodman’s, “The City of New Orleans”… “the best damn train song ever written,” and I would emphatically agree. The astonishing thing is that the singer/songwriter from Chicago was just 22 when he composed it and featured it on his first solo LP when it was released 50 years ago this spring. While another buddy, Arlo Guthrie, enjoyed a significant cover of it two years after Steve came out with the original, there is an unmistakable fidelity here, which makes Goodman’s version even better. According to legend, Steve scribbled the lyrics on a sketch pad after his wife fell asleep on the Illinois Central train, where they were going to visit his spouse’s grandmother. Goodman wrote about what he saw looking out the windows of the train and playing cards in the club car. After he returned home, the young songwriter heard that the train was scheduled to be decommissioned due to a lack of passengers. He was encouraged to use this song to save the train, so he retouched the lyrics and released it on his much-admired debut album. Sadly, Steve Goodman, who battled cancer on and off for much of his short life, died of leukemia 12 years after he recorded this unqualified masterpiece.
“Stuck On You,” Elvis Presley, 1960. The first single that The King recorded after he left the Army for good, “Stuck on You,” was recorded on March 2, 1960, and rocketed to #1 just six weeks later. Featuring the legendary great Scotty Moore on lead guitar, the reliable D. J. Fontana on the drums, and the vastly underrated Floyd Cramer on the keyboards, “Stuck On You” was recorded at RCA’s Nashville Studios and produced by the brilliant Steve Sholes. Six decades later, “Stuck on You” remains my favorite Elvis song ever – and that’s saying a hell of a lot. After all, how can you beat the King crooning, ”A team of wild horses couldn’t tear us apart”? Ultimately, Mr. Presley’s maple-syrup-baritone sounds so good here that you swear that it was recorded at the Sun Records Studio in Memphis by Sam Phillips. As one of my friends once said, “‘Stuck On You’ would have fallen flat with nearly every singer out there. It turned out to be great because only Elvis knew how to sing such a song with such constancy.”
“Color Him Father,” The Winstons, 1970. Fifty years ago, “Color Him Father” was a top-ten hit in both the US and Canada, a searing ballad to both fatherhood and the notion of “doing it right.” Produced by the Winstons, an integrated rock-soul-funk group from Washington, DC, “Color Him Father” featured the combined tenor saxophone and vocals’ prowess of Richard Lewis Spencer, who once was a member of The Impressions and later backed up Otis Redding. Five decades later, “Color Him Father” has happily become a staple on the Sirius Soul Town Sirius Channel!
“Sara,” Fleetwood Mac, 1980. One of Ms. Nicks’ most beguiling songs, metaphorically, this ballad is like a crowded, messy attic that Stevie has thrown all of the stuff that had consumed her life the previous decade – unexpected fame, the failed love affair with Lindsey Buckingham, her aborted child with Don Henley, a love triangle relationship with Mick Fleetwood and his wife, Sara Recor, and her emerging cocaine addiction all rolled into one. The brilliance of her poetry is at work here – Nicks has long called “Sara,” her alter ego – was so captivating to her loyal fanbase that it remains her most cherished ballad among them. Ultimately, “Sara” was 16-minutes long when Nicks wrote it. They had to edit it down to under five minutes for the album, but Stevie claimed the “real version” has about nine more verses and tells the entire story. “There’s no mayhem in the long version,” she claims, “just pathos.”
“The Fool on the Hill,” The Beatles, 1967. Paul McCartney got the idea for “The Fool on the Hill” in March 1967, on the day the band completed recording, “With a Little Help From My Friends.” During a protracted lunch break from the Sargent Pepper sessions, Paul began humming the song with nonsense lyrics. (He had done so previously when the working title of “Yesterday” was hysterically called, “Scrambled Eggs”). As McCartney looked out onto Cavendish Avenue in the Saint John’s Wood section of London where he resided, John Lennon, who had accompanied him to his house, stated, “You better write the song out, or you will forget it.” Paul assured him that he wouldn’t. Six months later, on September 25, 1967, the group began to record “The Fool on the Hill,” which would then be a featured number on their Magical Mystery Tour album. The tune describes a savant, whom most outsiders view like an idiot but who, in reality, is filled with enormous wisdom. At the time, Beatle fans thought that Paul was singing about the Maharishi Yogi, the Indian guru whose transcendentalism had vastly influenced the group that year. (The band then spent ten days with the Maharishi in Rishikesh, India five months later, where they observed him disingenuously hitting on an impressionable Mia Farrow. Lennon then penned the uproarious “Sexy Sadie,” in response). According to Beatles publicist Derek Taylor, however, the tune had a few different genuses. “Paul, his dog, Martha, and I had an early morning walk on Primrose Hill in the winter of 1967. We watched a particularly beautiful sunrise from the very top of the hill when Paul suddenly realized that Martha was missing. We turned to try to find her when suddenly there was a middle-aged man, very respectfully dressed in a brilliant raincoat, who smiled at us. We were sure that he hadn’t been there a moment before – we were rather startled to see him – but we greeted him, and he greeted us very warmly. A moment later, we saw Martha come bounding up the hill to rejoin us, and so we ventured back to where we had just been. To our astonishment, there was no sign of the man. Because we were on top of the hill and could easily see down on all sides, this was an impossibility. Paul and I then tried to speculate where he had disappeared, but we couldn’t make any sense out of it. Of course, we immediately felt that something mysterious, even spiritual, had just occurred. Paul began to work on ‘The Fool on the Hill’ later that night. The next day, he began to hum the song to John and completed it later on that spring.” The ballad that they recorded captured nearly all of the band’s most innovative musical elements that they had perfected as a studio band for the previous six years. In the final version of “The Fool on the Hill,” the Beatles incorporated eight strings, a trio of flutes, a standup bass, an acoustic guitar, a mouth harp, a set of maracas, finger cymbals, and a harpsichord. Producer George Martin, who constantly prodded them to explore the vast reaches of classical music, stood in awe in the producer’s sounding room at Abbey Road Number 2 Studio as they commenced to build musically upon the song. “It was the group at their very best,” Martin commented in The Beatles Anthology, “They played off each other, experimented, added things, pared things down, and created a masterpiece together. It was Paul’s song, but they all played a big part in it. It was obvious they had now transcended rock and roll and had entered a territory that no rock band before or afterward has ever visited.” In his voluminous tome on the Beatles, Revolution in the Head, writer Ian McDonald comments, “The timeless appeal of ‘The Fool on the Hill’ lies in the paradoxical air of childlike wisdom and unworldliness, an effect created by a melancholy revolving harmony in which the world turns in cycles and rest, shadowed by clouds drifting indifferently across the sky.” For longtime fans such as me, I distinctly remember hearing “The Fool on the Hill” for the first time in mid-December,1967, and thinking, “So this is what they are now up to these days!” For all of us under their spell at the time, each single and LP release was the musical equivalent of Christmas morning.
“Tempted,” Squeeze, 1980. A truly iconic single in the UK when I lived in Great Britain in the early 1980’s, “Tempted” was composed by band member Chris Dillford as he rushed in a cab heading for Heathrow for the band’s first continental tour. The Squeeze’s two brilliant but quirky songwriters, Dillford and Glenn Tillbrook – along with the band’s producer, the even more talented Elvis Costello – were considered by many British rock fans and critics at the time to be the successors to Lennon and MacCartney. While their reign as popmasters proved to be somewhat short-lived, their body of work was prodigious. Band member Paul Carrack sings the lead on “Tempted,” backed up by Dillford, Tillbrook, and Costello. After this fetching Top Ten single was released, many Squeeze fans would throw toothbrushes in Rocky Horror-style onstage when Carrack sang the opening line: “I bought a toothbrush…”
“Love On a Two Way Street,” The Moments, 1970. In an era when soul classic after soul classic was released, this massive hit, which held onto the number one spot for five weeks 50 years ago this May, turned out to be the apex for Washington, D. C. ‘s, The Moments. Featuring the Eddie Kendricks-like vocal performance of the late Johnny Moore, at least 20 other significant artists covered it afterward, including Aretha Franklin and Marvin Gaye. Still, no one could reach the depths that Moore hit here – one of the most heartfelt and searing vocal performances in soul history. If you were making a greatest hits package of the musical year, 1970, you would have to include this ballad as one of the premier songs of that period.
“Mona Lisa,” Nat King Cole, 1950. Seventy years ago this spring, Nat Cole’s signature song was by far the bestselling and most played tune in both the United States and Canada. You could hear it in barbershops, in local diners, in car radios, and as the opening song at high school proms everywhere. (For instance, it was the initial number played at Sylvia Plath’s 1950 Wellesley High Senior Prom at the Maugus Club in Wellesley, Massachusetts). Before this monstrous hit, Nat King Cole was better known as a renowned jazz pianist. Until 1947 when he was credited as a solo artist on the classic, “Nature Boy,” he recorded as a member of the King Cole Trio. “Mona Lisa” helped establish his reputation as a top vocalist of the era, although many Jazz aficionados also consider Nat one of the best piano players of the time. The timelessness of Cole’s version of this ballad is so profound that it still sounds as if it was written and recorded today. In the end, all that is not eternal is eternally out of date.
“We’ll Meet Again,” Vera Lynn, 1940. Eighty years ago this week, English singer Vera Lynn formally released this World War II standard as a single in Great Britain, which was then bracing for the Blitz. In the end, Dame Vera was the original “Forces’ Sweetheart,” providing World War II soldiers and families left at home with some positivity and spirit when they needed it most. “We’ll Meet Again,” proved to be one of Dame Vera’s most tear-inducing tracks, referring to the thousands of men who served and died – and their families at home who waited and kept the home fires burning. Eight decades later, lyrics such as “Keep smiling through, just like you always do,” strike a chord in today’s 2020 CoronaVirus climate, reminding us that history often repeats itself in unexpected ways. How incredible that Vera Lynn, now 103 years old, recently released this standard as a single in the UK. Here’s hoping – and knowing – that we’ll all meet again. (Sadly, Vera would die a few weeks after I posted this overview. What a life!)
“Ride Captain Ride,” Blues Image, 1970. From its enchanting lyrics to its rhythmic bass and percussion background to its counter-cross keyboards to its searing vocals by Looking Glass lead singer, Mike Pinera (who later joined Iron Butterfly), this inimitable single was the number-four hit in the US and Canada 50 years ago this May. The proverbial one-hit wonder, the group broke up later on in that summer, but for a few weeks in the spring of ‘70, “Ride Captain Ride” proved to be one of the most cherished singles of a celebrated musical year. Also, what a tremendous opening salvo: “Seventy-three men sailed up from the San Francisco Bay/Rolled off of their ship, and here’s what they had to say.” I dare you to play this and not fall in love with it once again!
“Nothing Compares To U,” Sinead O’Connor, 1990. Prince wrote and recorded this song in 1984 but didn’t release it. As fate would have it, Sinead O’Connor came out with her follow up album to The Lion and The Cobra six years later, which featured this cover to Prince’s “Nothing Compared to U.” Initially, it got a lot of play on college radio, earning the Irish balladeer a small, but devoted fan base. As it began to be played on FM stations, the word spread, and O’Connor suddenly found herself with a mega-hit. In the end, this thrust her into the spotlight, and the attention had some deleterious effects on the singer. Sinead claimed she hated the fame the song brought her, and that she struggled with the commercialization of her music. From religion to her lifestyle to her views on the music industry itself, O’Connor has remained an iconoclast. Despite her misgivings, the single eventually went platinum. Controversies aside, Sinead O’Connor has a pure and beautiful voice, which brilliantly frames this haunting song.
“Sweet Nothings,” Brenda Lee, 1960. All 4 foot 9 inches of Brenda Lee provided more power than an eight-cylinder, ’57 Oldsmobile, as demonstrated here by one of her more formidable hits, the infectious, “Sweet Nothings.” Incredibly, she was just 15-years-old when she recorded this, two years after Brenda, as a 13-year-old, recorded her most famous hit, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Until the mid-1960s, Lee, like the great Connie Francis, produced hit song after hit song, until her prowess in rockabilly turned into a more serious country phase, which sustained her career until the mid-1980s. Like Wanda Jackson, Brenda could wail with the best of them, which is why she was sometimes called, “The Girl Elvis.” And when she belts, “Uh, oh, honey,” here, it’s the equivalent of taking out the pin of a hand grenade before the ensuing explosion of sound.
How could I not include the great Marshall Crenshaw’s tribute to Miss Lee, which her reverently composed and recorded this song 25 years after her biggest hit, “I’m Sorry,” hit number one.
“Pennsylvania 6500,” Glenn Miller and His Orchestra, 1940. My mother would probably say that it seems impossible that 80 years ago today, “Pennsylvania 6-5000” was the number one song in North America! One of the great swing band standards of the pre-war era, younger listeners might not know the reference to Pennsylvania and the series of numbers afterward. Before area codes were enacted, the first two numbers were called the “exchange code,” and were represented by a word whose first two letters were used as the numbers. Thus, “Pennsylvania” signified the PE exchange code, which translated to the number 73 (P=7, E=3). By the way, if you use this number today, 212-736-5000, you’ll still get the main switchboard of that legendary hotel across the street from Pennsylvania Station in Midtown Manhattan! In terms of the tune itself, it was composed with accompanying lyrics and recorded as a vocal song by the legendary Andrews Sisters. Glenn Miller’s much more famous version featured his band members shouting out the refrain, “Pennsylvania 6500!” and then filling in the verses and bridges with infectious swing-jazz instrumentation. A personal note – my father once told me that my parents danced to this song by Glenn Miller and His Orchestra at Boston’s legendary Cocoanut Grove, not long before it burned down back in ‘42.
“Mill Valley, California,” Miss Rita Abrams and Her Fourth Grade Class, 1970. The #90 song in the end-of-the-year Top 100 for 1970, this ballad is, without a doubt, is one of the most unlikely hit songs of the modern pop era. As saccharine as cotton candy and almost nauseatingly upbeat, “Mill Valley, California” was composed by Miss Rita Abrams, a native of Brookline, Massachusetts who ended up teaching in suburban San Francisco. “After the gloomy winters of my Massachusetts upbringing, Mill Valley turned out to be a revelation, which is why I wrote a song about it,” she stated years later. To my knowledge, this is the only Top 40 song in history featuring a teacher and her class!
“American Woman,” Lenny Kravitz, 2000. Fifty years ago this June, the Canadian rock band, The Guess Who, burned up the pop charts with hits like “American Woman,” which they claimed was a love letter to the women of their own country. Lenny Kravitz’s powerful, updated version won for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance 30 years later. I saw him perform it live at a Bob Dylan Concert at Carnegie Hall, where Kravitz performed as the opening act. Ultimately, Lennie Kravitz proved that a cover could sometimes be more memorable and sustaining than the original.
“Wonderful World,” Sam Cooke, 1960. In between marriages, Sam Cooke was rooming with then-novice producer Lou Adler, who heard him play a Cooke tune in their apartment one day. “Oh, that’s a song I cut with Bob Keane that was never released,” sighed Sam. At the time, Keane, Cooke’s former producer, was suing Sam for a breach of contract. For six months, Adler could do nothing about it, and so the future standard was gathering dust in their apartment until Sam moved to RCA where it was subsequently released. A million copies later, Sam had himself another Top 5 hit sixty years ago this spring. For Lou Adler, who would go onto produce everyone from The Mama’s and Papa’s to Carole King, this proved to be “the great lucky break” of his 60-year career as a music executive. Ultimately, “Wonderful World” is one of those ballads whose timelessness seems to define musical gravity.
“High Time We Went,” Joe Cocker, 1970. In a world of four-cylinder cars that struggled to keep up with the traffic at the start of the soft rock era, Joe Cocker was like a barrelling Sherman Tank in the left lane ladened with a silo-full of testosterone. Talk about duende. Of course, I distinctly remember hearing this for the first time 50 years ago and thinking, “You’ve gotta be shitting me! Wow!” As with virtually all Cocker classics, this gem has an infectious groove, unimaginably passionate vocals, and seamless musical accompaniment. Yes, that’s Joe’s pal, Leon Russell, on the keyboard. Of course, Joe Cocker sang every song as though it would be his last.
“Body and Soul,” Billie Holiday, 1940. Recorded 80 years ago on the afternoon of June 3, 1940, this seminal Johnny Green standard featured the heavenly combination of Lady Day, at the height of her powers, and the legendary trumpeter Roy Eldridge, who riffs off Holiday here as if they’ve been working together forever. “My days have grown so lonely,” sings the greatest blues singer of all time, “for you I cry, for you dear only/Why haven’t you seen it?I’m all for you body and soul.” What else can you possibly say?
“Overture to Tommy,” the Assembled Multitude, 1970. A concoction of studio musicians from Philadelphia came together and produced a collection of instrumentals from 1969-70, which included The Who’s “Overture to Tommy.” In June 1970, this inspiring and infectious single made it to number 16 on the US Billboard Top 40. Produced by local musician Tom Sellers, who also served as The Assembled Multitude’s spokesperson, most of the band later formed MFSB, the backbone of Philadelphia soul, working with producers Gamble and Huff, and Thom Bell, and artists such as The O’Jays, Billy Paul, The Stylistics, and Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes. During the 1970s, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band reverently used Multitude’s interpretation of “Overture to Tommy” as their opening number in several East Coast venues. From my vantagepoint, this is an exceptional cover in every way.
“Hold On,” Wilson Phillips, 1990. This galvanizing ballad has probably saved scores of people over the years, thanks to its powerful lyrics and the shimmering vocal-play of Brian Wilson daughters, Carnie Wilson, Wendy Wilson, and the daughter of John and Michelle Phillips of the Mama and the Papas, Chynna Phillips. In retrospect, “Hold On” is not another California Pop song, but White Girl Rock & Soul at its very best. 30 years after “Hold On” was the number 1 song in the US, the tune’s impassioned refrain, “Hold on for one more day,” ought to be our motto for the harrowing times we now live in these days.
“In the Summertime,” Mungo Jerry, 1970. How about this giddy, guilt-free pleasure of a one-hit-wonder track to launch out a bountiful of summer-laced tunes? Of course, this beloved solid gold nugget from 1970 still smacks of effervescent summertime fun five decades after it was first released. “Have a drink, have a drive/Go out and see what you can find,” is not exactly PC, but what about summer-fun really is? The mainstream British rock group, Mungo Jerry, fronted by the talented Ray Dorset, never had another substantial hit again, but the revenge here is that it has become a staple of “best summer songs” over the past half-century. According to YouTube, “In the Summertime” has been listened to nearly a billion times on its website over the years.
“I’ve Got A Crush On You,” Ella Fitzgerald, 1950. This classic George and Ira Gershwin tune, first composed in 1928 for the Broadway musical, Treasure Girl, has been recorded hundreds of times over the last ninety-two years, most notably by Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, whose 1950 recording made it a jazz standard, primarily of her astonishing vocal repertoire. The way she caresses each note, it almost makes you want to blush. In a fifty-year career where she recorded more than a thousand songs, “I’ve Got a Crush On You” is one of Lady Ella’s most accomplished performances.
“Devil or Angel,” Bobby Vee, 1960. When Buddy Holly tragically perished in a plane crash in Iowa on February 3, 1959, he was supposed to play in Moorehead, Minnesota the following evening. A local Fargo, North Dakota rocker, Bobby Velline, then 15 years old, hastily assembled a band of Fargo schoolboys, calling themselves the Shadows, and volunteered to fill in for Holly and his band at the Moorhead engagement, which was across the river from their Fargo homes. Their performance there was a success, setting in motion a chain of events that led to Velline’s career as a famous singer. Liberty Records later shortened his name to Bobby Vee, and he began churning out single after single – starting in the fall of 1959. Over the next twelve years, Vee had ten Top 20 songs and six gold records, including this chestnut, a cover of the Clovers old doo-wop hit, which reached number 6 on this day 60 years ago. Yes, Bobby homogenized it a bit, but that was the entire point after all.
“America’s Farm,” Levon Helm, 1980. When Levon Helm’s criminally underappreciated LP, American Son, was released 40 years ago this June, this idiosyncratic cut captured the essence of the modern American farmer in a sublime three-minute track filled with passion, pluck, and spunk. Four decades later, “America’s Farm” remains one of my favorite Levon Helm numbers – including his nearly flawless work with the Band.
When every song had a certain swagger – “a mean motor scooter,” and life was as good as it got when we were in the throes of “The American Century.” Thus, groups such as the Hollywood Argyles cranked out songs like “Alley Oop” in the assembly line format of Top 40 radio (just like General Motors!) The Argyles, a local LA-based group, consisted of Ronnie Silico on drums, Gaynel Hodge on piano, Harper Cosby on the bass, and Sandy Nelson (of Teen Beat fame) on the tambourine and, yes, a garbage can for this number! Hodge provided the lead vocals while Sandy Nelson produced the famed vocal scream in the song. Even those of us in Kindergarten at the time walked around our classroom at the time, spouting: “Alley Oop Oop, Oop Oop Oop!”
“Make it With You,” Bread, 1970. Written by Bread’s lead singer, David Gates, this number one single, released 50 years ago this summer, came to define the new genre, which became known as soft rock. A featured single on the band’s second album, this was the first international hit for Bread. Interestingly, though, David Gates had previous success as a songwriter, most notably as the composer of 1964’s Top 5 single by the Murmaids, “Popsicles and Icicles.” I have to admit that I like this song then and I love it now. I apologize; it’s one of my many weaknesses.
“Life is a Highway,” Tom Cochrane and Red River, 1990. No, Rascal Flatts didn’t do this first. 30 years ago this month, it was the Canadian rocker, Tom Cochrane who composed, sang, and produced the first version, which was a number-one song in his native country. The rollicking Red River Band does a stellar job here supporting Cochrane’s infectious ballad. Happy Canada Day, everyone!
“America,” Neil Diamond, 1980. As some of you might remember, Neil Diamond starred in The Jazz Singer, a 1980 film which was a remake of the Al Jolson classic from 1927. Ultimately, this original song from the soundtrack turned out to be the proverbial keeper, a ballad that is still regularly played at citizenship swearing-ceremonies on the Fourth of July. Ultimately, this poignant ballad captures something about our country we all can identify with as Americans. With Neil Diamond’s emotive vocalization, every listener connects with it regardless of ethnicity. “On the boats and on the planes/They’re coming to America/Never looking back again/They’re coming to America…” Happy Fourth of July to all – black, brown, red, and white.
“I’m in the Mood For Love,” The Charlie Parker Quartet, 1950. Featuring Miles Davis on trumpet, Erroll Garner on piano, Teddy Kotick on the bass, and Max Roach on percussion, this sublime interpretation of the old standard by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields was released 70 years ago today! Given the number and the musicians involved, it turned out to be one of The Bird’s most evocative records. As with many of Parker’s releases, there is a double-edged sword here – the music is pulsating with life even as it breaks your heart. If Vincent Van Gogh could have played the alto saxophone, he might have well sounded like Charlie Parker.
“Hitchin’ a Ride,” Vanity Fare, 1970. Released by the English band, Vanity Fare in November 1969, “Hitchin’ A Ride” took nine months for the US to embrace the pulsating, infectious ballad where it eventually surpassed the British in both song position and sales. 50 years ago today, this was the number 5 hit on the Billboard Top 10, where it remained for two more weeks. Many teenagers that summer sang the tune’s refrain, “Ride, ride, ride – just a hitchin’ a ride,” as they drove their Dodge Darts and Chevy Camaros to the beach or the local amusement parks, or, like me occasionally, stuck the old right thumb out to go somewhere adventurous. A one-hit-wonder, Vanity Fare never approached the success they had with this exuberant sing-a-long tune.
“Fantastic Planet of Love,” Marshall Crenshaw, 1990. One of a handful of unsung singles that should have garnered the most underrated rock performer of the 1980s a million in sales, here, Marshall pays homage to one of his favorite bands growing up, The Moody Blues, in a reinvented ballad to kick off the 1990s. There are so many things to love about this unencumbered rocker – the kick-ass guitar work; the wildly infectious melody; the hip lyrics; the seamless vocals supported by a world-class group of backup singers; the impeccable drum work of the great Kenny Aronoff; and the sustained, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” which ends the song with a nod to such Moody Blues’ albums as Every Good Boy Deserves Favour and To Our Children’s Children’s Children. One of the greatest pop vocalists of all time, Marshall Crenshaw here sounds like a combination of Buddy Holly and the Grassroots’ Rob Grill.
“Think for Yourself,” The Beatles, 1965. For some Fab Four fans, this number was an afterthought, a little ditty buried within the brilliance of Rubber Soul. But it turned out to be much more than that. In John Lennon’s most personal Beatles album, “Think for Yourself” was a subconscious love letter from George Harrison to John himself. For George, the youngest and most impressionable of the Beatles, Lennon not only filled the big brother/mentor role the moment he met him at fifteen in 1957, but John turned out to be “the best teacher I ever had.” From the time he joined John’s band, the Quarrymen, in the summer of 1957 – when he was just fifteen – George Harrison absolutely idolized Lennon. For George, the most spiritual of all four musicians, Lennon was his first guiding light before he found God in the late 1960s. “John was the center of my world for more than ten years,” George wrote in his autobiography. Despite Lennon’s vast contradictions – “he unknowingly hurt me with his sharp tongue hundreds of times,” Harrison once admitted – Lennon was, after all, the individual who wrote, “Love is a promise, love is a souvenir, once given, never forgotten, never let it disappear.” “John could be idiosyncratic, unpredictable – but his heart was almost always in the right place,” Paul McCartney told Dave March in a much-quoted Rolling Stone piece 15 years after Lennon’s death. Not long before he succumbed to cancer in 2002, George commented, “In a world in which violence and misunderstanding and war were often the final result, it was John who wrote, ‘All You Need is Love.” It’s a pretty astonishing legacy to leave to the world.” Not surprisingly, then, George’s first stab at songwriting consciously mirrored Lennon’s lyrics – ponderous, ironic, substantive. However, in “Think for Yourself,” recorded on November 8, 1965, the good student now yearns to sprout his own wings after latching onto John’s back for the previous decade. As in the best works of both Lennon and McCartney, Harrison’s subconscious prevails in the number: “Although your mind’s opaque/Try thinking more for your own sake/The future still looks good/And you’ve got time to rectify/All the things that you should.” Musically, as far back as George’s 1963 tune, “Don’t Bother Me,” Harrison often overlapped major and minor harmony with an emphatic circle progression that made his own sound distinctive from both John and Paul. He does so as well in “Think for Yourself,” a warm-up to his first authentic masterpiece, “If I Needed Someone,” which George would compose nine months later. 15 years after “Think for Yourself” was first recorded, I ended up playing it over and over again in the early morning hours of December 9, 1980. Like millions and millions of lifelong Beatles’ fans, sleep was an impossibility when I learned that John Lennon had been senselessly murdered a few hours previously. Filled with pathos, I played Rubber Soul – John’s favorite album, over and over again until the dawn light sifted through my bedroom curtains. I mourned when I listened to “Girl” and wept when I played Lennon’s searing “In My Life.” But when I got to George’s “Think for Yourself,” I ended up listening intently. Through the ghostlike presence of John Lennon, George Harrison left a calling card for all of us to ponder on the day that the leader of the Beatles had perished: “Do what you want to do/And go where you’re going to/Think for yourself/’Cause I won’t be there for you…”
“A-Rockin’ Good Way,” Dinah Washington and Brook Benton, 1960. Dinah and Brook were at the pinnacle of their musical careers when they recorded four songs together in 1960, which would serve as a harbinger for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell a few years later. “A Rockin ‘Good Way,” a Top-10-song in the US sixty years ago this week, this is nothing less than two members of the rhythm and blues royalty having an almost indescribably rollicking time cutting this pop standard together. In my mind, this number is so evocative of the era that you can picture teenagers at the time dancing to this fabulous number.
“Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours,” Stevie Wonder, 1970. Stevie Wonder had just turned 20 when he composed, produced, supported, and sung this iconic anthem, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours.” Ultimately, it spent six weeks atop the American R&B chart and garnered Wonder his first Grammy nomination. My fellow Wellesley High School classmates would undoubtedly agree with me when I say how great life is to have a song out like this when you’re fifteen-years-old. In the pantheon of tunes that Stevie has produced over the years, this flawless single would rank near the top. On July 22, 1970, Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours” was the number one song worldwide.
“Shining Star,” The Manhattans, 1980. One of the last terrific R&B pop group standards by the vastly underrated Manhattans, this silky-soft, sexy single conjures up memories so sweet and unforgettable for those of us who danced to it back then that you still check the floor after it is finished to make sure that you didn’t just melt through the floor. Originally from Jersey City, the Manhattans had a long musical career, with Top 40 songs from 1964 to 1986.
You’re No Good,” Linda Ronstadt and Band, Live in 1980. Happy 74th birthday to a national treasure and my old girlfriend (I wish, hee hee). While Linda famously recorded this in 1974, her live performances of the Clint Ballard, Jr., rock standard, first written and recorded in 1963 by Betty Everett, was to die for in every way. As you will discover here if you watch this clip, there’s her powerpack vocals, of course, but it is Danny Kortchmar who steals the song for a spell with an incredible guitar solo. When you have one of the greatest female kiss-off tunes ever with the incomparable Linda Ronstadt delivering it live – watch out. This will make your day. I promise.
“I’ll Never Smile Again,” Frank Sinatra with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, 1940. Frank’s first national hit with TD after leaving Harry James after a two-year stint, “I’ll Never Smile Again” proved to be “The Voice’s” first number one hit. As Sinatra said later, he learned everything about phrasing from Tommy Dorsey and Billie Holiday. Anecdotally, when one of my former students, a doctor, visited a nursing home to check in on one of her patients, she observed a gaggle of old folks huddled in one of the conference rooms listening to the old songs. “When ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’ was played to them,” she recalled, “there was not a dry eye in the place.” When the song ended, with tears streaming down their cheeks, one of the patients laughed, “I think the singer here might just go places!”
“G. I. Blues,” Elvis Presley, 1960. When The King returned to the US after his two-year stint as a GI in the US Army (1958-60) in West Germany, he quickly made a film, whose title song, “GI Blues,” recorded at the RCA Victor Studios in Hollywood with his old standbys, Bill Black, Scotty Moore, D. J. Fontana, and the Jordanaires. It proved to be a Top Ten hit in October 1960. When my older brother bought the LP, a certain nearly six-year-old named Shaun couldn’t get enough of it. And, of course, there were the words: “They give us a room/with a view of the beautiful Rhine/They give us a room with a view of the beautiful Rhine/Gimme a muddy old creek/in Texas any old time/I’ve got those/hup, two, three, four/occupation G.I. Blues/From my G.I. hair to the heels of my G.I. shoes/And if I don’t go stateside soon./I’m gonna blow my fuse…” Bruce Springsteen said in his autobiography, Born to Run that “Born in the USA” was the counter-cross to “GI Blues.” You’re right, Boss. You’re right.
The idea came to Sam Cooke on the evening of April 12, 1962, when he appeared at Atlanta’s Rhythm Rink while on an extended Henry Wynn Supersonic Tour of the South. The King of Soul was headlining a lineup that included blues legend Solomon Burke, the Drifters, Dee Clark, B. B. King, and Dion DiMucci (of Dion and the Belmonts fame).
At that time, racial tensions were percolating just as the civil rights movement was gaining momentum. Thus, a “mixed-race tour” in the Old Confederacy was generating a wellspring of controversy. As Cooke’s biographer, Peter Guralnick, remembered: “Sam was the soothing influence who kept that tour together. ‘He was a kind of champion for… cooling everybody out,’ said Dion DiMucci, and, as on the earlier tour, some of Dion’s most treasured memories were of singing with Sam backstage—” he was always so full of music.'”
According to Sam Cooke’s friends, the notion for the song had been stirring around in the singer/songwriter’s mind for weeks. The idea’s inspiration had actually sprung from Charles Brown’s 1959 R&B single, “I Want to Go Home,” a standard 12-bars blues number ladened with traditional call-response that had also been sautéed in a barrel full of soul.
Cooke, who had been a gospel music prodigy before he was 18, had spent much of the preceding ten years on the road, though he now made Los Angeles his base. For someone who was a Chicagoan for more than half of his life, home had become not a physical place for Sam – but it was “about the people you left behind.” This was especially evident to him because he had lived his musical career out of a suitcase.
As Sam Cooke rode in a rented limousine to the concert that evening in Georgia’s capitol city, it all came together for him. He yearned to write a gospel-tinged blues song, featuring call-response in the form of a “backside” duet – a lead-singer in concert with a strong vocal response. Of course, this wasn’t some new form of music for him. Instead, Cooke instinctively yearned to compose the same style of music when he had joined gospel’s legendary Soul Stirrers beginning in 1949 before he had finally crossed over to the dominion of rock-pop with 1957’s “You Send Me.”
While the white public hardly knew of Sam Cooke during his halcyon years as a gospel icon, he had already achieved mythical status to millions of African-Americans around the country while he was the leader of the Soul Stirrers. In 2016, Aretha Franklin recalled Cooke’s magnetism as a gospel star:
“Sam and I met at a Sunday evening program that we had at our church back in the early ’50’s. I was sitting there waiting for the program to start after church, and I just happened to look back over my shoulder, and I saw this group of people coming down the aisle. And, oh, my God, the man that was leading them — Sam – and his younger brother, L.C. These guys were really super sharp. They had on beautiful navy blue and brown trench coats. And I had never seen anyone quite as attractive, not a male as attractive as Sam was. And so prior to the program, my soul was kind of being stirred in another way. And then, Sam sang, and he left everything, everything out on the stage. He was the most beautiful man I ever saw.”
Sam Cooke’s live performances as a gospel lead-singer became so renowned that he was compared in real-time to Frank Sinatra in terms of influence, magnetism, and sheer luminosity. Thus, when he eventually entered the world of pop and soul, his loyal gospel fans viewed him as a Judas. However, once he began churning out such original standards as “Wonderful World,” “Chain Gang,” “(She Was) Only Sixteen,” Everybody Loves to Cha Cha Cha,” “Sad Mood Tonight,” “Cupid,” Twistin’ The Night Away,” and “Feel It,” all was eventually forgiven.
Thus, when he alighted from the limousine that night in Atlanta and rushed for the stage, Sam couldn’t shake this “back home idea” as he called it. Cooke knew that he had to compose and record it quickly. After the concert that evening, he composed much of it in his downtown Atlanta hotel room. Like the vast majority of the numbers he wrote, the refrain section of the song came to him first: “Bring it to me, bring your sweet lovin’, bring it on home to me.”
Once he completed the number, Sam felt that it had a bluesy, almost hypnotic feel, which so excited him that he sang it to performer Dee Clark, whose single, “Raindrops,” had been a significant hit the previous summer. Clark wasn’t impressed at first, but Cooke felt he had something, so he then called his producer back in California, Luigi Creatore, who immediately loved the concept. Sam kept emphasizing that he wanted to sing and record it in the vein of his old Soul Stirrers gospel hits, and Creatore readily agreed.
Given that the singer/songwriter had already composed a ready-made single, “(We’re) Having a Party,” Cooke and his producer thought that the now-titled,“Bring It Home To Me” would fit nicely as its B-Side.
By the time Sam made it back to Los Angeles from his Southern tour ten days later, the number was ready for recording. On April 26, 1962, Cooke entered RCA’s Recording Studio Number 1 in Hollywood, anxious to record both “Having a Party” and “Bring It Home To Me.” Awaiting him were the customary Wrecking Crew musicians, including Tommy Tedesco on lead guitar, Adolphus Alsbrook on the bass, Ernie Freeman on the keyboards, and a bevy of acclaimed string players who had long backed up Sinatra on such hit albums as In The Wee Small Hours of The Morning and Frank Sinatra Sings For Only The Lonely.
The assemblage of musicians began the session with Sam’s “(We’re) Having a Party,” the designated “A-Side,” which was the musical stepchild of his smash hit, “Everybody Loves To Cha Cha Cha.” Cooke’s longtime arranger, René Hall. had not only transposed both numbers to be accompanied by six violins, two violas, two cellos, and a saxophone, but he had added a seven-piece rhythm section to the mix as well. “We wanted musical power to match Sam’s vocal potency,” Hall remembered years later.
That night, Cooke was joined by the Sims Twins, a novice vocal group he had signed with his newly-formed SAR Records the previous year. At the last minute, Sam also asked one of his childhood friends from Chicago, Lou Rawls – whose plush bass-baritone voice had been in constant demand in recording sessions around LA since he moved to the West Coast in 1959 – to sit in on the session as well. “We might need you, Lou,” he winked to his longtime friend as he entered the studio.
After pushing through the infectious “Having a Party,” which took 13 takes to “make right,” Cooke huddled up with René Hall to continue the good vibes and momentum after they recorded, “Party,” with “Bring It Home To Me.” He told Peter Guralnick, “We were after the Soul Stirrers-type thing, trying to create that flavor in a classic rhythm and blues recording.”
“Let’s get to it! “Sam exclaimed to his musical entourage. In just two takes, that’s exactly what they did. Cooke reflected later that it was probably because he yearned for a “live feel” to the ballad. “I wanted it to feel just like a Soul Stirrers’ performance on stage.”
Sam and his production team encouraged renowned pianist and bandleader Ernie Freeman to provide the number’s “intro” with a blues riff that would instantly capture the attention of any listener. After fiddling around on his keyboard for a spell, Freeman crafted a hypnotic, primal introduction that ultimately became a chilling calling card to Sam’s distinctive tenor. Freeman’s bluesy keyboard riff was then supported by the counter-punching percussion chops of Frank Capp, a veteran Wrecking Crew drummer. This pulsating ostinato proved to be an electrifying prologue to one of Sam Cooke’s two or three most revered vocal performances of his storied career.
“If you ever-er change your mi-ind
About leavin’, leavin’ me behi-ind
Oh-oh, bring it to me
Bring your sweet lovin’
Bring it on home to me-ee…”
Just four bars into it, you knew it was Sam Cooke. While he earned the moniker, “The King of Soul” after his untimely death in 1964, even then, in the spring of ’62, you could have predicted that such a dominating vocal performer paved the way for a thousand branches. Like the chiseled knife that can cut your soul in two, the singer’s vocals throughout the ballad are wrapped in a cornucopia of both fidelity and pain.
To put the finishing touches on the gospel-like feel, Lou Rawls not only sings harmony with Sam, but he then bestows a series of muscular call-response “yeahs” throughout the recording as well. In the end, Rawls’ heady vocal conviction and entusiasmo are such that he nearly hijacked the tune from Cooke in the process.
Once the last note was played in LA’s RCA Recording Studio Number One, everyone involved knew even then that they had cut something special. It had taken them only two takes to get it right. This was not Sam Cooke, pop star to a largely white audience. This was Sam Cooke, master of both gospel and soul. As Peter Guralnick remarked in his exceptional biography on Sam Cooke: “What comes through in ‘Bring It Back Home To Me’ is a rare moment of undisguised emotion, an unambiguous embrace not just of a cultural heritage but of an adult experience far removed from white teenage fantasy. There was nothing to add or subtract.”
Arranger René Hall recalled years later. “There was minimal post-production that went into that song. We took it out of the oven, and it was ready for wax.” In the end, it had taken less than 30 minutes of studio time to craft a definitive soul ballad sung by two of the greatest R&B performers of all time, even as it was superbly backed up by LA’s celebrated Wrecking Crew. Of course, enduring artistry is never an accident.
Released along with “Having A Party” on May 21, 1962 by RCA Victor, “Bring It Back Home To Me” was “discovered” by a legion of deejays who methodically played Cooke’s “B-Sides” in case there was something there.
By the early summer of ’62, “Bring It Back Home To Me” began to enter national top-ten lists, reaching as high as #2 on the R&B list and #13 on the pop charts. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who was an avowed Sam Cooke fan, cried, “My goodness, what a sound!” to his friend, the Reverend Ralph Abernathy, when the two civil rights leaders drove to a conference outside of Atlanta one afternoon that summer and heard it on the radio.
Over the years, “Bring It Back Home To Me” was famously covered by both John Lennon and Paul McCartney during their post-Beatles solo careers. It also found favor in both the recording studio and/or onstage with the likes of James Brown, The Animals, Van Morrison, Rod Stewart, Bonnie Raitt, UB40, Bruce Springsteen, Southside Johnny and the Ashbury Jukes, Al Jarreau, Goerge Benson, and U-2. While Sam Cooke was tragically murdered less than three years after this seminal recording, “Bring It Home To Me” is still so revered by musicians that Tom Petty called it, “sacred,” when he chatted about its timelessness on his Sirius Radio show back in 2016.
In retrospect, gospel drove Sam Cooke through his most celebrated songs, the same way it did for Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and Otis Redding. Like the legendary Nat Cole, Cooke had an incomparable voice that is as distinctive as a fingerprint. In retrospect, Sam could sing anything and make it work. As the late Lester Bangs once famously wrote in Crawdaddy, “It was his power to deliver — it was about his phrasing, the totality of his singing, which made him immortal.”
Of course, Sam Cooke could have sung out the names of the street signs in his hometown of Chicago, and it would have sounded great.
It all started because of a word that has often been used in countless threads on the popular Boston Red Sox message board, “The Sons of Sam Horn,” over the years.
Mojo, according to Webster’s Dictionary, is a noun with an intriguing denotation: “A magical power or supernatural spell.”
After the last out of Game 3 of the 2004 American League Championship Series, nearly every member of SoSH – some 1900 strong at the time – had called upon whatever mojo they could muster to help their Sox stave off the shackles of elimination against their arch-rivals, the New York Yankees who, at the time, had a seemingly insurmountable three games to nothing lead and had just humiliated the Red Sox at Boston’s Fenway Park, 19-8.
From the inclusion of the complete text of Act IV, Scene 3 of Shakespeare’s Henry V (“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers….”) to the publication of a series of montages depicting heroic players from Boston’s sports past, nearly every poster had beseeched the sporting gods on behalf of their beloved baseball team.
As a Red Sox fan who had followed the team on a pitch-by-pitch basis since 1963, I had experienced enough pathos to turn me into the ultimate oxymoron – a raging existentialist. In my forty years of following the team, I had seen them come perilously close to winning the final prize, only to see them stumble, often in inexplicable, even comical circumstances. In 2004, the Boston Red Sox had not won a World Series since the year President Woodrow Wilson had proposed the Fourteen Point Plan. Thus, there were more than three generations who never knew what it was like for the organization to be the sport’s best. Still, as the 2004 playoffs unfolded, I, like countless other Sox fans, didn’t allow myself to wallow in abject misery this time.
The next morning, I appeared on a local New York radio station and proclaimed: “Listen, folks, there has never been a curse that began with the trading of Babe Ruth from the Sox to the Yankees..The only reason we haven’t won it previously is that we’ve always lacked the pitching needed to win. This year, we have the pitching. If we can somehow win Game 4 of this series, the Yankees will be in trouble. We CAN win these next four games. You watch.”
William Jennings Bryan once wrote, “Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved.” I wore a Red Sox baseball cap to work each day that week.
Miraculously, the Red Sox won the next three games, two of them in extra innings, to tie up the series.
Accordingly, at 11:25 am on the morning of October 20, 2004, I sat down at my teacher’s desk in Room 7 of the Upper School at The Greenwich (CT) Country Day School and began pounding away on my then Dell laptop keyboard, crafting my own particular mojo that – I hoped – would ultimately defeat the despised Yankees.
I called the thread, “Win it For.”
“Win it for Johnny Pesky, who deserves to wear a Red Sox uniform in the dugout during the 2004 World Series, I began. “Win it for the old Red Sox captain Bobby Doerr, who, through the sadness of losing his beloved wife, Monica, would love nothing more than to see his Sox finally defeat New York in Yankee Stadium. Win it for Dom DiMaggio, the most loyal and devoted of men. If he hadn’t gotten hurt in Game 7 of the 1946 World Series, Enos Slaughter never would have scored – and the Red Sox would have been champions.”
I then urged my SoSH compatriots to win it for other Red Sox icons and personal favorites – Carl Yastrzemski, Ted Williams, Tony Conigliaro, Jack Lamabe, Luis Tiant, Dewey Evans. For Red Sox announcers who had helped hone our love for the team before they had passed on – Ned Martin, Ken Coleman, Jim Woods, Sherm Feller.
I encouraged them to win it for our cherished Red Sox friends, and for other SoSH members who had devotedly followed the fortunes of the franchise, each of them marking their own time with each passing season.
And finally, most of all, I urged them to win it for my father, James Lawrence Kelly, 1913-1986, who “always told me that loyalty and perseverance go hand in hand. Thanks, Dad, for sharing the best part of you with me.”
As I looked over my copy on the SoSH website, I realized that there may be a few others who’d want to dedicate a possible championship to those individuals in their own lives who had loved the Red Sox through thick and thin.
I was right.
In the end, the original thread would contain hundreds of tributes from the populace of Red Sox Nation. Ultimately, 51,000 entries were submitted by posters and lurkers from 47 different states, 39 foreign countries, and six continents. By the time the “Win it For” thread was purposely shut down eight days after it began, each poster had added something unique to what became an utterly compelling Red Sox mosaic. Later that winter, it would be converted into a bestselling book with the proceeds going to both the Jimmy Fund and Curt Schilling’s “Pitch for ALS.”
In an ESPN column paying tribute to the thread, Bill Simmons, deftly crystallized the uniqueness of it that week: “Plow through the ‘Win it For’ posts and it’s like plowing through the history of the franchise – just about every memorable player is mentioned at some point – as well as the basic themes that encompass the human experience. Life and death. Love and family. Friendship and loss.”
What made the thread were the assorted posts that poured out of the hearts of Red Sox fans across the globe and reminded us all that the bonds we had created around the team had never died.
“Win it for my grandfather (1917-2004), who never got to see the Red Sox win it all – but always believed. And for my Dad who watches each and every game wishing his dad were there to watch it with him.”
“Win it for my mother who died of ALS in 1999. The only personal item I have left of hers is her Red Sox visor.”
“Win it for my ten-year-old son, Charlie, who fell asleep listening to Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS assuming the Sox would win. When he woke up the next morning, he asked me eagerly, ‘Did we win, Dad?’ When I told him, gently no, we did not win, his anguished moan startled me. I knew I had raised him as a Red Sox fan, and I began to question whether that was a good thing.”
“Win it for my grandfather, who succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease in 2002. In one of my last conversations with him, he asked me how Ted Williams was doing. During Game 7 on October 20 against the Yankees, his birthday, he was smiling down on the Red Sox.”
“Win it for the elderly Sox fan that I hugged at Yankee Stadium last Wednesday night after Game 7 of the ALCS. Seeing the look of relief and jubilation on his face was one of the most emotional experiences I have ever been through. Yes, baseball has the power to unite generations of strangers.”
“Win it for my Little League coach, Ralph Retera, a tough man who landed on Omaha Beach, and yet a tender man as well who always gave on extra pat on the back of those of us who frankly weren’t very good. ‘Baseball is a game of failure, boys,’ he’d say, ‘look at the Red Sox. But that doesn’t mean we can’t give it our best!’ Coach Ralph used to wear a grungy Red Sox cap that he bought in the 1950’s and would take us to games at Fenway when we played for him. When he died in 1988, Coach Ralph’s tattered Bosox hat adorned the top of his flag-draped casket.”
“Win it for my boss, a dear friend, who lost his dad unexpectedly in March of this year. More than once this season, I’ve seen him glance at the phone after a game, half expecting his father to commiserate, rejoice, or just shoot the breeze about the game that just ended. I’ve seen the sadness in his eyes as he realizes that the call isn’t coming. Win it for his dad, a lifelong fan who never had the opportunity to witness his beloved team taking it all.”
“Win it for my buddy, Brian Kelly, who worshiped at the feet of Tony Conigliaro growing up. He even used to copy Tony C’s swing and was devastated when Jack Hamilton almost killed him. Brian’s favorite time as a Red Sox fan was that magical summer and early fall of 1967, two years before he went off to Vietnam. If the Sox win this whole thing, I plan to go on down to the Vietnam Memorial Wall where you can find Brian’s name. God, he would have loved this team.”
“Win it for my aunt, God rest her soul, who, at her funeral, the priest said, ‘She was a woman of great faith. She believed that she’d see a Red Sox championship in her lifetime.”
Within 48 hours of the inception of “Win it For,” political columnist, Andrew Sullivan linked it on his highly popular political blog. Newspaper reporters from Kansas City to Tampa, San Francisco to Baltimore began to write comprehensive pieces on the thread. Before Game 1 of the World Series, the gang on ESPN’s Baseball Tonight began to refer to the magic of “Win it For” as “the Red Sox’ secret weapon.” Radio commentaries on the thread surfaced in Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, Albany, Seattle, and Atlanta. The thread itself garnered more than fifteen-million Internet hits.
On the evening of October 28, 2004, the day after the Red Sox had swept the St. Louis Cardinals, 4-0, to win their first World Series in 86 years, Peter Jennings ended his nationally televised ABC News Tonight broadcast with a piece that paid tribute “to the power of an emotive Internet thread and its eloquent posters, followers of a championship team that came to define the word – hope.”
Six weeks after the season ended, author Leigh Montville dedicated 33 pages to “Win it For” in his narrative on the 2004 Red Sox, Why Not Us? He entitled Chapter 7 of his book, “The Story of the Amazing Thread.” In an interview after the publication of his remembrance of a remarkable season, Montville maintained that…“at the very least, one-hundred years from now, ‘Win it For’ will be THE historical record of what happened here. The other works – mine included – will have faded away, but the ‘Win it For’ thread on the Sons of Sam Horn website will remain as the voice of all voices concerning the 2004 Boston Red Sox.”
What made the thread so unique were the individual anecdotes that connected generations of fans together. In page after page, the singular stories of Red Sox fans formed bookends to the notions of both loyalty and passion:
TrapperAB: “Just like last year, there will be an empty spot on the couch as I watch Game 7 of the ALCS tonight. Dad cheered for the Sox from the age of eight in 1930. He went to games at Fenway with his father and told me about it when he took me to the most glorious stadium on God’s green earth. My father passed away in 2001, which means, of course, that he never saw the Sox win one in his lifetime. One of his final moments of clarity was seeing Rivera blowing a save and the D-Back’s winning the World Series that year. That was also his last smile. I believe that my father has been busy lately, along with a lot of other fathers and grandfathers and brothers and sons – helping umpires see the truth and helping David Ortiz lead the way. That hand that Curt Schilling talked about last evening after Game 6? It was the legion of dearly departed Red Sox fans – of which my father was one. Once again this year, there will be that empty spot on the couch…reserved for my Dad. I can only hope that he’s sitting there with me.”
Monbo Jumbo: “Shaun – add my old man to your list (1909 – 2000). He saw Ruth pitch, and he saw Pedro pitch. And now, he’s upstairs playing gin rummy with Joe Cronin between games.”
Sooner Steve: “Win it for my old man, who taught me how to love the game and this team; who taught me what it means to be a man; who, even in his darkest hours facing the end, still wanted to talk about his team; who never saw them win it in his lifetime, but who loved every minute of the Impossible Dream to Morgan’s Magic; who worshiped ‘The Splendid Splinter’ and extolled the virtues of Yaz. Win it for me so I can pay a visit to Dad’s grave and toast that title we always dreamed about. Here’s to you, Pops – in loving memory…DW Gibbs (1936-1993).”
Norm Siebern: “Win it for my Granpa Harvey (1974) who would rise up from his seat along the right field line in the grandstand and defend Scotty from the boo birds, even if Boomer was only hitting .170 in 1968. Win it for that seven-year-old kid who fell in love with a game and a team that long ago magical summer of 1967. And for that eighteen-year-old young man who sat in the left field grandstands and watched a little popup hit by Bucky “Bleeping” Dent nestle into the screen on October 2, 1978.”
Ramon’sBrother: “Win it for a certain nineteen-year-old who cried himself to sleep in the early morning hours of October 17, 2003.”
An unknown lurker: “Some morning next week, in the hours just before dawn, the cemeteries all over New England will be filled with middle-aged men, standing by ancestral graves marked – whatever the headstone – with the same bronze veterans’ plaques at the foot – First Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, PFC, served some range of years beginning with a high school graduation and ending with the year, 1945. We will be reading aloud from tear-stained newspapers, sharing our first too-early libation of the day. (A Gansett? A Ballantine Ale?) We will be drinking to Cabrera’s defense; Foulke’s grit; Damon’s grace; Ortiz’s incredible sense of timing. MAYBE we will even have a reason to toast Manny. We will be waving the bloody sock – thanking God and Theo Epstein for sending us Curt Schilling, on whom all our hopes rested, and did not die in vain. Remembering all those who came so close but did not get there, like Yaz and Boomer and Rico and Hawk and El Tiante and Dewey and Jim Ed, even Nomar. Remembering all those who did not live to see us get there, like Ted and Tony C and my Granpa Dan. The clock will be unwinding; the pages will be flying off the calendar; the earth will tilt slightly on its axis. I will be there. My brothers will be there. Get there early. It’s going to be crowded.”
Tedsondeck: “Win it for my brother, Johnny, who left Boston in 1944 for the South Pacific, a Red Sox hat planted firmly on his head. He was a nineteen-year-old kid who loved three things – the Red Sox, Fenway Park, and Ted Williams. He lost his life in a hellhole called Okinawa. There hasn’t been a single day that hasn’t gone by when I don’t think of him. This one’s for you, JB.”
SFGiantsFan: “Win it for the people of Red Sox Nation. You people are the legacy of what this great game is all about – or should be about…the love and support of your team through good times and bad. People like you, and teams like this one, have brought me back to baseball after the shame of 1994. Thank you all. You truly deserve this.”
PUDGEcanCATCH: “Win it for my brother, who worked on the 94th floor of the North Tower, and who died on September 11, 2001. He used to look out the window and stick his tongue out in the direction of the Bronx. Above his desk, he had a framed picture of Fenway with two baseball cards scotch-taped to the bottom, Reggie Smith and Pudge Fisk, his two favorite Red Sox players growing up. Many times when he worked, he would proudly wear his Sox hat. After the plane hit his building, I have a strong hunch that he then put his Sox hat on for the last time.”
BasesDrunk: “My mother-in-law was as diehard a Red Sox fan as they come. She died of cancer in February, 2003. My wife was born on October 7, 1967, literally in the middle of Game 3 of the World Series against the Cardinals. Her mother kept asking the nurses for updates while in labor. No doubt she now wants revenge for St. Louis ruining an otherwise perfect day.”
Lurker OregonSoxFan: “Win it for my dad who passed away on 10/20/93. When I was a seven-year-old boy, he introduced me to – and shared – the Impossible Dream, which was where my love for this awesome team began. Last night, I watched the greatest Sox victory (so far this year) with his eight-year-old grandson, Jeremiah, who, in turn, is catching the fever. We talked about Dad and all that he taught me about the game. Mom called after the game, and we shared tears of joy, and a tear of grief.”
BoSox Lifer: Win it for that little boy who was sitting with his dad and his uncle at Game 7 at Yankee Stadium last October. With him crying as the game ended, I leaned over, and holding back my own tears, I told him with as much conviction as I could muster to cheer up because next year we were going to win it all. Somewhere I know – that little boy is smiling today…”
Curtis Pride: “I want the Red Sox to win it for my mother. She became a fan in 1967 and has followed them faithfully via radio to this very day.”
“I was born deaf, so growing up was difficult for me. But then I discovered the Red Sox in 1977, and my parents took me to Fenway that summer, which made me a Sox fan for life. And since then, I would sit with my mother by the radio while she listens to the Sox and relayed the events to me as they unfolded.”
“We still discuss the Red Sox today, but I want them to win so that she can experience that sweet taste of victory that has been denied her for so long. I know how it feels to finally overcome an enormous obstacle, and I want her to feel that as well.”
Cheekydave: Win it for my father, who had a love for numbers and baseball and passed it on to me; it was the only way we could communicate. But it was always a safe haven, and at least there was ONE way to communicate between us. He died last year on his birthday, October 20th, one year to the day that the Red Sox beat the Yankees! Also, win it for my mother, who died when I was nine on October 2, 1967, the day after the Red Sox won the pennant, and the day I became both a Red Sox fan and also a single parented child.”
A lurker from Australia: “Win it for all of you New Englanders who deserve at least one warm winter.”
“I became a Red Sox fan when I first read Roger Angell’s account of the Impossible Dream team; I became an official citizen of Red Sox Nation when I walked into Fenway on a dreary night in 1985.”
“I ended up living in Boston until 1993 when I returned to Australia. October is the spring down here, but not a baseball season has passed by without me thinking of you hardy New Englanders preparing for a winter that most of my countrymen couldn’t even comprehend; dreaming of Spring Training, and thinking that maybe next year will be ‘the year’ for the Red Stockings.”
“Well, next year is here! This week, all of your dreams will come true. And when it’s time to rake the leaves and put up the storm windows, you’ll be thinking, “Next year – back to back…”
Lurker Nomarfan31: “Win it for my mom, Mary, who died of lung cancer on July 9, 2003, and who loved to declare, “They’re gonna lose,” while inside wildly rooting for them to win. I cried when Nomar was traded, not because it wasn’t time for him to go (sadly, it was) but because it was the loss of another link to Mom, who always call me whenever he did something spectacular in a game.”
Red Sox Owner John Henry: “There was a point during this season that was very, very tough. But I came here, Shaun, and read your Bandwagon thread, and was uplifted by the depth and breadth of your faith. It was at the time the best thing we were reading anywhere. These guys – I’m so proud of them – they refused to lose for the faithful this week. I’m proud of everyone who refused to get off the bandwagon.”
Sargeiswaiting: The Mekong Delta is a long way from Boston. During the summer of 1969, I found myself as a private in the army, fighting in a war that was becoming increasingly unpopular at home. When I was homesick for Boston, a fellow private named Kevin, born and raised in the Boston area, kept my spirits up. We used to listen to the radio after the hell of patrol. There was one song by Neil Diamond that we used to love listening to in the outskirts of the jungle. We would scream it out at the top of our lungs. The girl in the song was the girl in our dreams! Kevin was a big Sox fan. He especially loved the Boomer, George Scott. Kev got Agent Orange and began to fade away in the early eighties. The war eventually killed him years after he returned home. Earlier this August, I attended a Sox game against the White Sox. It was cold as hell for a summer afternoon, and the Sox lost in disappointing fashion. Still, in the bottom of the eighth inning, I began to hear the strains of that song that Kev and I sung so well back in Vietnam –‘Sweet Caroline.’ Jesus, Kevin’s favorite, playing at Fenway. The tears are flowing now as I write this. Win it for Kevin. Win it for Sweet Caroline!”
In early November 2004, ten days after the last out of the 2004 World Series, I received a note from a most perceptive lurker to the website. He wrote: “You know, Shaun, I really believe that the ghosts that we all beckoned, our dearly departed fathers and grandfathers, sisters, brothers, neighbors, coaches, and friends, had a hand in the astonishing two weeks that we’ve just experienced. In a way, it was their last loving act to us. And we, in turn, responded as only we could…in the posts that we ultimately submitted.”
I concluded the “Win it For” thread on the morning of October 28, 2004 with the following entry, written seven hours after Keith Foulke had stabbed Edgar Renteria’s one-hopper for the third and final out of the ‘04 Series:
“In the end, people talk about the ghosts Red Sox fans live with, but they have it all wrong. It isn’t the ghost of Babe Ruth or Bill Buckner or all the names associated with a curse that never really existed. Instead, it is the ghosts we can still see when we walk into Fenway Park. It is our fathers and mothers and grandparents. It’s our next door neighbors and our baseball coaches and our aunts and uncles. Those are the ghosts that matter to us. Those are the specters we see, huddled together, watching their team and the game so intently.”
“For those of us who have followed the fortunes over an extended period, a Red Sox World Series championship marks a beginning – and an end. While we have made peace with all of our relatives and friends who have passed on over the years, there was always a little unfinished business between us – and them. Now with this incomparable victory, that too is complete.”
“And so, after all of these years, we can finally have a clean goodbye to our dearly departed. Perhaps that is why so many tears were shed in living rooms all over New England and beyond in the early morning hours of October 28, 2004.”
The “Win it For” thread, a small idea in the beginning, was formally inducted as a literary entity into the writer’s section of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York in the summer of 2007.
“Win it For’ seamlessly connected six generations of Red Sox fans together as no other document ever has,” wrote a publicist for the Baseball Hall of Fame upon the thread’s induction. Even today, 16 years after it first was published, the original “Win it For” thread still has the capacity to bring tears and smiles together as close as they can ever be.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt was seldom at a loss for words. Three days previously, he had nominated the most prominent Irish-American at the time, Joseph P. Kennedy of Massachusetts, to be the United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James. The President was amused that he had appointed “someone so Irish” to the second most prestigious position in the State Department as the new Ambassador to England.
Much to his chagrin, however, FDR soon began receiving a plethora of outraged phone calls disputing his controversial appointment, mostly from indignant Irish-Americans. Roosevelt looked baffled as he took still another call from an irritated Irish-American official.
He glanced over at his very Boston-Irish secretary, Missy LeHand, and muttered, “What is the matter with you people? The minute one of you accomplishes anything – there’s always another fellow behind him with a rock, more than eager to bring him down.”
Missy LeHand merely smiled.
As we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day today, those of us who are Irish would surely nod their heads in an endorsement of Roosevelt’s allegation if his testimonial could be magically circulated throughout the Irish world. A case in point: some years ago, I ran into my elderly, Irish-American father as he was coming out of our local high school to vote in an important general election in Massachusetts. His eyes twinkled as he glanced at me.
“Shaunie!” my father hollered, “are you here to cancel my vote?”
“I am, Dad,” I replied.
Without even so much as a hint of irony, he barked, “Good for you!”
Dad then gave me a thumbs-up as I strutted into the polling place to negate all of his political preferences that year.
“The Irish,” H. L. Mencken once observed, “have a logic all their own.” There is a famous story often told among Irish circles concerning the famed dual clock towers situated in Ballyhough. The two clocks disagreed at the correct time – one was six minutes faster than the other. When a visiting American asked one of the community’s locals why the town would have two such splendid clock towers that told conflicting times, the man replied, “And what would we be wanting with two clocks if they told the same time?”
Legendary British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli once stated, “You never know what is going to spew forth from an Irishman’s lips. They are a completely unpredictable lot.”
Disraeli’s thesis could certainly be applied to an incident that occurred in June 1963 during President Kennedy’s visit to Europe, which included stops in Germany, England, and Ireland. Pope John XXIII had died suddenly during JFK’s first stop on the trip – West Berlin. By the time Kennedy neared the end of his stay in Europe, Pope Paul VI had already been installed as the latest Bishop of Rome. John Kennedy decided to pay the new pontiff a visit.
The nation’s thirty-fifth president contacted his old friend, Richard Cardinal Cushing of Boston, and instructed the Catholic leader to meet him as Air Force One rolled onto the runway at Rome’s international airport. Ultimately, Cushing drove to the airport with two aides; all of the other cardinals in the American delegation had already returned to the United States. As President Kennedy stepped into view from his plane, he noticed Cushing standing alone at the bottom of Air Force One’s ramp.
“Jack! Jack!” cried out the Cardinal to his most famous parishioner. “The American cardinals have left! They’re all a bunch of goddamn Republicans!”
President Kennedy, according to eyewitnesses, collapsed in spasms of laughter.
“The Irish don’t get back – they get even,” stated Thomas P. “Tip” O’Neill, the legendary Boston congressman, in his spellbinding autobiography, Man of the House. The notion of the famous “Irish grudge” could best be summed up with the words of a traditional Irish curse which goes something like this: “May none of their race survive/May God destroy them all/Each curse of the psalms in the holy books/Of the prophets on them fall. Amen.”
The capriciousness of the Irish was also evident when I stood in line to have acclaimed Irish-American author, Frank McCourt, sign a copy of his Pulitzer-Prize-winning tome, Angela’s Ashes. Throughout the memoir, humor and pathos had been the constants of a childhood of poverty that left the reader laughing despite the tragedies. After his “shiftless, loquacious, alcoholic father” who deserted the family during their time of most need, McCourt’s Pa was found two decades later working as a cook at a monastery.
“Then food must have been their penance,” McCourt wrote.
So here I was in line at a prominent bookstore in Stamford, Connecticut waiting for the great man to sign a copy of his book. when I finally reached his table, he smiled brightly at me and exclaimed, “And whom do I make this out to…my lad?” McCourt.
“To me, Sir. My name is Shaun Kelly,”
“Acchhhh,” he sighed, “May God forgive you.”
From the get-go, the Irish have always loved a good fight. When the Irish fought the English hundreds of years ago, the legend has it that the Anglo-Saxons could not believe how the Celtic Warriors absolutely delighted in the all-consuming passion of hand-to-hand combat. “Their savagery was beyond normality; waves of ecstasy shone from their eyes,” wrote a mystified English chronicler.
In modern times, James Michael Curley, the legendary Boston Irish politician who was immortalized in Edwin O’Connor’s classic novel, The Last Hurrah, embraced the Irish ferocity mindset throughout his colorful fifty-year political career. Curley, who was elected twice from jail, was the quintessential Robin Hood. He stole from the rich and gave to the poor – but he also took ten percent off as a surcharge. Loquacious, opinionated, and flamboyant, the Mayor could charm any bird from a tree.
Despite his obvious rascality, however, Jim Curley was, according to legendary Speaker of the House, Congressman Tip O’Neill, “a man who did a tremendous amount of good for the people of Boston. As mayor, he provided thousands of jobs while improving the schools and the playgrounds, paving streets, expanding the subway, establishing public beaches, putting up affordable hospitals, tearing down slums, and doing favors for an untold number of people who truly needed help.”
According to O’Neill, however, James Michael Curley detested the ruling Yankee aristocracy, pronouncing them as “our Brahmin overlords.” Obviously, the mayor loved to get back at them whenever he could. Once, when an important project that would benefit the poor in Boston was blocked because the local business establishment, virtually all of them controlled by “Yankees” at the time, the mayor personally visited one of them, the defiant owner of Filene’s. “I want you to know,” Jim Curley informed the Filene’s CEO, “that the city’s water ‘main’ goes right under your fancy building here. If you don’t know where it is, your building manager can surely tell you. If I don’t have that money by this very afternoon,” the mayor exclaimed, “then I’ll open the valves and flood Filene’s Basement in an instant.”
The City of Boston received its loan that afternoon.
Self-effacing humor is another quality that is held dear by most Irishmen. In the quaint vernacular of the Irish, a wheelbarrow is called an Irish ambulance, a diaper is known as an Irish flag, and a rock is sometimes referred to as an Irish diamond. Two of the most popular modern presidents used self-effacing humor to disarm their political opponents. It is no coincidence that John Kennedy and Ronald Reagan were both proud Irish-Americans. When an infuriated reporter tried to nail President-elect Kennedy as to the meager qualifications of his then thirty-four-year-old brother, Bobby, after JFK had appointed Bobby as the nation’s new Attorney General, Kennedy replied, “I don’t see what’s wrong with Robert gaining a little government experience before he goes on to establish a practice in law.”
In 1962, when a reporter commented to JFK that the Republican National Committee had formally concluded that he was pretty much a failure, the President flashed his legendary smile and replied, “Well, I am sure that such a proposal passed unanimously!”
President Ronald Reagan possessed the same talent for self-mockery. After he was shot in an assassination attempt in March 1981, he told a friend, “I’ve been shot at many times in my life, but in Hollywood they always used blanks.”
When Reagan entered the operating room to remove bullet fragments from his chest, he proclaimed to the chief physician, “Let’s just hope you are a Republican!”
Both Kennedy and Reagan could laugh at themselves because they both possessed such obvious self-confidence and panache. Politicians in both parties have tried unsuccessfully to emulate them since their presidencies but have been unable to capture the magic of their particular brand of drollery and wit.
“The Irish,” observed T. H. White, “are rank sentimentalists. Their prose and verse drip with a mawkishness that would be unsettling to most other cultures. And yet, I continue to find myself deeply moved by their poems, novels, and lyrics. “Danny Boy,” for instance, still brings tears to even the most stoic of individuals.
The following prayer was recited at the christening of John F. Kennedy, Jr., in 1961:
We wish to the new child
A heart that can be beguiled
By a flower
That the wind lifts
As it passes.
So fleetingly, so fragile.
If the storms break for him
May the trees shake for him –
their blossoms down
And in the night that he is troubled
May a friend wake for him
so that his time be doubled,
And at the end of all the loving
and all the love,
May the Man above –
Give him a crown.
38 years later, the same poem was recited at his funeral by his grieving uncle.
May the wayward winds be with you on this Saint Patrick’s Day!
When I explained what a proverb was to one of my honor’s English classes a few years ago, I reminded them that such adages were verbal warning shots, sighs, clarion calls, or expressions of wisdom, which generally have a prolonged shelf-life, often lasting for more than a millennium.
Within each passage, I explained, one could find examples of values, moral behavior, the meaning of human life, and righteous conduct. After we studied both the Book of Proverbs and Poor Richard’s Almanac plus a medley of William Shakespeare maxims, the kids asked me if there was an artist in contemporary times who had generated a wellspring of modern proverbs.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, “Bob Dylan.”
Over the next week, my ninth-grade class perused through Dylan’s works and located 50 such classic axioms. Given where we are as a society in 2020, the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature’s takes on life in 2020 is “like a corkscrew through the heart.” Like all great parables, Bob Dylan’s are both timely and timeless. Here then, are those Golden 50 as selected by my class.
There’s no success like failure, and failure’s no success at all.
Money doesn’t talk – it swears.
You can’t be wise, and in love at the same time.
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves, let me forget about today until tomorrow.
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’.
Come gather ’round people, wherever you roam, and admit that the waters around you have grown.
Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?
Well, the moral of the story; the moral of this song: Is simply that one should never be – where one does not belong. So when you see your neighbor carrying something – help him with his load. And don’t go mistaking paradise – for that home across the road.
I’m sick of love, but I’m in the thick of it.
All the money you made will never buy back your soul.
In the dime stores and bus stations, people talk of situations, read books, repeat quotations, draw conclusions on the wall.
You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
So many things that we never will undo. I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too.
Look out kid, it’s somethin’ you did. God knows when, but you’re doin’ it again!
Behind every beautiful thing, there’s some kind of pain.
But I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.
Yesterday’s just a memory; tomorrow is never what it’s supposed to be.
Steal a little and they’ll put you in jail. Steal a lot, and they’ll make you king.
How many times must a man look up before he can see the sky?
Time is a jet plane — it moves too fast. Oh but what a shame that all we’ve shared can’t last.
Sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace.
I hate myself for loving you.
I was so much older then; I’m younger than that now.
It frightens me the awful truth of how sweet life can be.
All the people we used to know, they’re an illusion to me now.
Beauty walks a razor’s edge; someday I’ll make it mine.
I paid the price of solitude, but at least I’m out of debt.
The guilty undertaker sighs. The lonesome organ grinder cries. The silver saxophones say I should refuse you. The cracked bells and washed-out horns blow into my face with scorn. But it’s not that way, I wasn’t born to lose you.
I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours.
We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it.
Well, the emptiness is endless, cold as the clay; You can always come back – but you can’t come back all the way.
But if the arrow is straight, and the point is slick, it can pierce through dust no matter how thick.
Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet.
In ceremonies of the horsemen, even the pawn must hold a grudge.
I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul.
To live outside the law, you must be honest.
I see my light come shining, from the west down to the east. Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.
Oh, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free!
When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing left to lose.
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn. Look out your window, ‘cause I’ll be gone. You’re the reason I’m travelin’ on.
We always did feel the same, we just saw it from a different point of view.
In the fury of the moment, I can see the master’s hand in every leaf that trembles – in every grain of sand.
Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen, and keep your eyes wide – the chance won’t come again.
You put your eyes in your pockets, and your nose on the ground.
She’s got everything she needs, she’s an artist – she don’t look back.
He who’s not busy being born, is busy dying.
The future for me is already a thing of the past.
So many things that we never will undo. I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too.
When you cease to exist, then who will you blame?
Life is sad, life is a bust, all you can do is do what you must.
I’ll always thank the Lord when my working day is through, I get my sweet reward to be alone with you.
Father of night, Father of day Father, who taketh the darkness away Father, who teacheth the bird to fly Builder of rainbows up in the sky Father of loneliness and pain Father of love and Father of rain
Father of day, Father of night Father of black, Father of white Father, who build the mountain so high, Who shapeth the cloud up in the sky Father of time, Father of dreams Father, who turneth the rivers and streams
Father of grain, Father of wheat Father of cold, and Father of heat Father of air, and Father of trees Who dwells in our hearts and our memories Father of minutes, Father of days Father of whom we most solemnly praise!
48 Radcliffe Road, Wellesley, Massachusetts in May 1970. Whatever the season, the house was a beacon of light to those of us who lived in it.
As a congregation of workmen employed by local builder Ralph Porter assembled on a cleared track of dirt that measured half-an-acre, the foreman immediately looked at the designated patch of ground where the firm’s bulldozer would soon continue digging. “If we’re lucky,” he said to his men, “we might be able to finish this today.”
Circling the property, piles of snow lay where the men the day before had plowed away the drifts made by a recent storm. He covered his face when the wind suddenly gusted from the northwest at 9 miles per hour. At 8:01 am on the morning of January 28, 1955, the temperature stood at 11 degrees Fahrenheit, as a hollow sun began to appear on the horizon. In pre-global warming New England, this was a typical mid-winter fare for the people who lived and worked in Wellesley, Massachusetts.
A few hours previously, at the then-named Richardson House in Boston, I was born, the fourth and last child of James Lawrence and Laura Rice Kelly, who then resided at 57 Mayo Road in Wellesley. By the end of my first day of life, the basement of the house had been completed by the work crew of Ralph Porter Construction.
Until the day she died in 2005, my mother would remind me each year on my birthday of my intimate connection to 48 Radcliffe Road. “Shaunie, we might still be on Mayo Road if you hadn’t been born! So our present house, in a special way, is yours.” For nearly four decades, it was, and although I didn’t live there for the last seven years that Mom resided there after Dad died in 1986, I still called it home.
Journalist Warsan Shire once wrote that no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. For me, it was the place where I could totally be myself, and I was a full time resident of 48 Radcliffe Road from 1955-1982. Infancy, toddlerhood, childhood, adolescence, young adulthood – 48 Radcliffe Road was the epicenter of who I was for more than 26 years.
Here I am in my new digs – my bedroom at 48 Radcliffe Road – still moving in six-months later.
In the end, I knew every nook and cranny. During unrelenting windstorms, I recognized it’s groans, aches, and sighs. Our house could be scorching to the touch in a July heatwave or shiver in the midst of a February gale. I was there when our abode survived Hurricane Donna in 1960, and I helped Mom clean up after Hurricane Bob in 1991. When the legendary Blizzard of ‘78 hit Wellesley with hurricane winds and snowdrifts up to 56 inches at Mrs. Pelles’s house at the bottom of Radcliffe Road, my parents received food and supplies by sleigh for a week. Homes, like people, have their own peculiarities, and our house, while conventional developed its own personality. It was a well-lit comfort blanket, a safe harbor, and a fierce warrior who stood up to all kinds of weather.
48 Radcliffe Road in a February blizzard, 1969. My bedroom has both of its storm windows open – I never liked the heat!
Over the years, I slept in every room, played hockey in the basement, and discovered a hiding spot in the attic where I read a legion of books. I shot thousands of baskets in our driveway and participated in countless games of baseball and football on the front yard. I walked my first steps in my bedroom, rode my first bike in our elongated driveway, learned how to write at the kitchen table, and watched President Kennedy’s funeral in our book-lined den. Within its walls, I listened to everything from Little Richard and Buddy Holly to the Beatles and the Moody Blues to Stevie Wonder and Joni Mitchell to U2 and Bon Jovi. Virtually every girl I ever dated visited our house at one time or another.
For my first 35 Christmases, I celebrated 34 of them at 48 Radcliffe Road. It was my home-base when I graduated from elementary school, high school, and college. On August 17, 1984, I walked from our house to St. Paul’s Church a mile away to get married to Wendy Barnes of Wellesley.
In retrospect, our dwelling was never an object. It was the seventh member of our family.
This was never more apparent than in January 1986, when my father died suddenly of a heart attack in his bedroom. A few years earlier, we conversed about where he wanted to be buried. As a World War II veteran, I thought that Dad would want to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. “Nope, Shaunie,” he smiled. “I choose to be buried right behind our house.”
This was not some Irish-tinged fantasy of an older adult who desired to be dumped in the backyard of the family baile. You see, our Wellesley dwelling abutted tree-lined Woodlawn Cemetery, and thus, this was doable.
Consequently, when Mummie traipsed up to the superintendent of the cemetery and purchased a plot as close to 48 Radcliffe Road as possible the day after Daddy’s death, his last wish became a reality. When my wife and I then drove into our driveway on the day of my father’s funeral and saw his casket lying on the ground no more than 500 feet from our house, we both smiled. “Dad’s home,” I said without irony.
Dad’s casket through the trees from our backyard on the day he was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery in January 1986.
Mummie ended up staying at the old homestead for another eight years after Dad died. When Wendy – who came from the other end of Wellesley at Chesterton Road – and I moved to Greenwich, Connecticut in the fall of 1989 to work at The Greenwich Country Day School, we made periodic trips home on weekends. When our first child, Sam, was born in April 1991, we took him to see my mother on several occasions. One time, he visited his Gaga in his Halloween costume, and I showed him how I used to sit at the top of the stairs and then bump my way down to the bottom! Not to be outdone, little Sammy then proceeded to up and down the stairs for what seemed like an hour. Like father – like son.
When Mum informed us that she was selling the house – “nine rooms and one person is way too much!” – we treasured each visit home. Over Christmas break, 1992, just two months before my mother moved, Sam and I showed over several mornings over our Christmas break because he loved to peck away at the piano, which had been a staple in our living room since ’55. During one visit, it began to snow, and I shoveled the walkway and grinned when I remembered the countless hours I had pushed snow away from driveway for my parents who didn’t believe in the concept of snowblowers until the mid-1980’s.
Shoveling the “too-long driveway” old-school fashion on college during Christmas break in 1974.
On January 28, 1993, my 38th birthday, our elementary school alma mater, Tenacre Country Day, invited me to attend a dinner in my mother’s honor, which was held at the Wellesley College Club. For the last time that evening, I slept in my former bedroom. Before closing the familiar blinds, I looked out at the barren treetops, which seemed to wave a special hello to me as the winter wind blew outside.
The next morning, before I returned to Greenwich, I went down to the kitchen and found a black Sharpie. I then hustled upstairs, opened the pull-down attic, and quickly made my way to the place where I had made a reading spot for myself two decades earlier. On a sturdy beam above, which faintly smelled of New England maple, I wrote, “My family lived here from April 30, 1955, to February 25, 1993. IT WILL ALWAYS BE HOME. Shaun Kelly.”
After Mom moved away, I would periodically drive by our old house and visit Dad up at Woodlawn Cemetery. 48 Radcliffe Road was upgraded, and an addition to the living room and dining room areas made the house even more livable. Still, if you viewed it from the front, it looked the same. When my mother called me one day in November 2005 and informed me that she had terminal cancer, I flew down to Florida to see her after Thanksgiving. When we said goodbye to one another, she whispered to me, “I’ll be with Dad soon, and we’ll both be overlooking the house.”
On July 6, 2018, I received a Facebook message from an old Wellesley friend who still resided in town. “Shaun,” it read, “your old house was struck by lightning. The place is crawling with firemen and firetrucks. There’s a lot of damage. I am so so sorry.”
The damage from the Fays’ house at 51 Radcliffe Road.
According to The Wellesley Townsman in its July 10, 2018 edition, “Firefighters from Wellesley and four other towns made quick work of putting down a lightning-caused residential fire on Friday, but the blaze left behind an estimated $750,000 in damage to the house and its contents. Jeff Peterson, assistant fire chief, said the firefighters were dispatched to 48 Radcliffe Road at 12:47 p.m. ‘The home’s owners were away in Maine, and the fire was reported by a neighbor. Between the structural damage and water and smoke damage, the house will not be immediately habitable. The five-bedroom home was built in 1955,’ said Peterson.”
The fire at 48 Radcliffe Road was one of the lead stories that evening on the local Boston TV 4 News.
As soon as I received the message from my Wellesley friend, I frantically called my sister, Karen, after I heard about the fire. “An errant lightning bolt during a thunderstorm hit the attic, seared through to your old bedroom, and created havoc everywhere!” I exclaimed. We were both in shock. The Wellesley Townsman later reported that the house was uninhabitable.
A month later, I visited Wellesley before an afternoon Sox game at Fenway Park. On a whim, I parked my car at the Wellesley High School parking lot and walked home, as I had done countless times throughout the early 1970’s. Every corner, pathway, and street seemed to greet me like an old friend. As I shuffled up Hobart Road to the crest of Radcliffe, I was astonished to see our former house standing resolute and matronly, wounded but still very much alive.
At first glance, there seemed nothing awry with the structure, but then I saw the gaping hole in the roof on the right side of the structure, and I knew that I was probably seeing our old dwelling for the last time. I smiled briefly when I saw that my bedroom, which was at the other end from the damage, still looking pristine and impenetrable. Observing that no one was in the house, I sauntered up to it, pressed my left hand against its familiar wooden side, and held onto our home for a spell. It was my last goodbye. Ultimately, the original house at 48 Radcliffe Road was never inhabited again. The bolt of lightning had done too much damage.
48 Radcliffe Road in 2017 the year before the fire, a 62-year-old beauty.
For 63 years, two months, and six days, the house had been the nerve center for three families who all grew to love its warmth. In a Frostian kind of way – what other connection can I make here, especially as a lifelong New Englander, 48 Radcliffe Road began in ice and ended in fire. I guess that houses are like people – some you like and some you don’t like – and once in a while, there is one you love.
Not long after I discovered that old abode would be demolished and a new one put up in its place, I drove up to Woodlawn Cemetery in 2019 on a windswept April morning and decided to view it all from the perspective of my parents’ grave. Where once our house dominated the view from the back of Woodlawn Cemetery, there was now an empty lot of chocolate-brown dirt that stood out like moonscape in contrast to the overarching greenery snaking around it. At that moment, I felt that I had just lost a limb. Of course, 48 Radcliffe Road and I had parted ways before, but it was always temporary. It had stood like a recalcitrant icon years after I had last walked through its timbered hallways. After we moved away, I sometimes found myself aching for its distinctive smells and its numerous crevices.
As I grew older, however, I came to realize that the memories of childhood are the specters that stay with you after you wake. In reality, our house was in the past, much like a breeze that had blown out to sea. Still, it was gone, and the only family residents left of in Wellesley were buried less than a two-minute walk from a place that no longer existed. As I took it all in, I blinked a few tears and then slumped back into my car, grieving for the loss of my parents, my childhood, and the home that had disappeared, like a mystical Brigadoon, into the mist of time.
This past December, when the Baseball Hall of Fame announced that Ken “The Hawk” Harrelson, the antithesis of Ned Martin as a broadcaster, was the 2019 recipient of the prestigious Ford C. Frick Award and would be inducted in Cooperstown this July, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I ended up smiling, knowing that Ned Martin, the voice of the Boston Red Sox from 1961-92, would have delighted in the irony.
You see, I got to know Mr. Martin very well – despite the fact that I only met him twice in person. His distinctive tenor, reassuring and cerebral, was the second-most heard male voice of my childhood. Only my father’s fixed baritone surpassed his as the soundtrack of my years growing up in the greater Boston area when he broadcast games for 32 seasons in the Hub.
In an age where humility and grace slowly receded from our national character, Martin’s modesty and eloquence separated him from a host of others. He never intentionally developed a defined signature call for a home run. The ball was simply “gone.”
And yet, Ned Martin used words as a composer uses the notes on a scale. He embraced the notion first put forth by Emerson…“that every word was once a poem.” There was nothing ever programmed about him. Cogent phrases seem to tumble from his mouth like falling stars.
Ultimately, Ned Martin was able to frequently quote from the most gifted bards of English literature – Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Dickens, Hemingway – in order to put the narrative of baseball into its proper context. He was a reader – and he brought a reader’s sensibility to each and every broadcast.
Ned Martin was also a deeply-rooted philosopher. Because he had dipped in the bonfires of hell as a Marine in World War II, Ned described each game as an existentialist. And yet Martin was more than just a baseball announcer. To me, he served as my personal captain, steering me through the choppy waters of both youth and adolescence – guiding, nurturing, and instructing me as I listened intently, his most loyal and devoted student.
28 seasons have come and gone since he last called a Red Sox game on the air. And yet, when I turn on a ballgame these days, it is Ned’s voice that still lingers. On July 22, 2002, he appeared to be his vigorous, cordial self as he participated in the Ted Williams Tribute at Fenway Park.
Less than 24 hours later, he was dead.
While hundreds of players have come and gone since he first began to broadcast for the team in 1961, for many of us, Ned Martin remains the most indispensable Red Sox figure of them all. As former Globe columnist, Bill Griffith, wrote a few years ago: “Today’s broadcasts are slicker and technically superior, but those bygone days were a wonderful time to be a baseball fan in Boston. Long before there was ‘Morgan Magic’ on the field in 1988, there was ‘Martin Magic’ on radio.”
In a storeroom of searing play-by-play moments, the “magic of Ned Martin” was most evident at one of the most culminating historical moments of the 119-year-old franchise, the 1967 Impossible Dream Red Sox. To appreciate the wizardry of Ned Martin, one only has to review his lucid play-by-play of the final out of a closely-fought contest between the Bosox and the mighty Minnesota Twins in order to demonstrate his luster. Leading 5-3 with two outs in the ninth inning, the Twins manager, Cal Ermer, sent up pinch-hitter Rich Rollins to face Red Sox ace Jim Lonborg.
As always, Ned Martin provided the scene with absolute precision… “Jim Lonborg is within one out….of his biggest victory ever…his twenty-second of the year….and his first over the Twins.” Efficient, accurate, to the point.
He then paused, letting the listener soak in the scene. Like the ancient Greek philosophers, silence was always one of Martin’s most laudable broadcasting attributes.
“The pitch…is looped to shortstop…”
A living and breathing thesaurus, Martin could have used any of a host of words from his prodigious vocabulary, but he chose, “looped.” My father later described Reese’s popup as “a little squirt from the hose.” Looped was an inspired choice, impeccably capturing the bending flight of the ball.
While the Red Sox announcer was also able to inform the listener where the sphere was heading, there was, at first, no intimation in Martin’s tone whether the ball was even going to be caught. Ned Martin would never impulsively rush to judgment. He was, first and foremost, a patient man. To him, fidelity was the antonym of hyperbole.
However, as the ball began to topple, Ned’s voice hurriedly changed; his tenor commenced to soar as he exclaimed, “Petrocelli’s back….” A hint of expectation in Martin’s voice could now be detected. Because Red Sox fans were so used to Ned’s understated demeanor, thousands of New Englanders began to raise their arms in joyous expectation. Ned’s vigor at that instant was authentic. “He’s got it! The Red Sox win!”
Even in the clutches of euphoria, Martin maintained his integrity. The Red Sox win…..win, what? For with that last out, the Red Sox had just tied for the pennant; they would have to wait for the final result of the Tigers-Angels game to determine whether the team would win the American League flag outright – or be forced to play in a one-game playoff against the Detroit nine the following day. Thus, Ned could not confirm anything official … except that the Red Sox had won a consequential ball game.
The Sox radio announcer then took in a breath of air, mostly to observe the players and fans who had instantly enveloped the jubilant Jim Lonborg to the right of the pitcher’s mound. Chaos ensued, but Ned Martin was well-equipped to describe it. He immediately punched out, “And there’s pandemonium on the field!”
The broadcaster could have used havoc, mayhem, commotion, hubbub – but he chose – pandemonium. From the least-used word for bedlam, pandemonium is, according to Webster’s, “An utterly lawless, riotous place or assemblage.” A toss-off line by Ned Martin – “there’s pandemonium on the field” – immediately entered the lexicon for an entire region of baseball fans.
The last ingredient of Martin’s call contained just one word – and a cacophony of elation. Mindful that he was describing the action to a radio audience, Ned paused, and then bleated, “Listen!”
An opus of horns could be heard – the air-kind that were allowed at the time – instruments of exultation that always gave out a piercing glee as they echoed off the peeling walls of the ancient ballpark. The fans’ collective primal-shouting verified Martin’s precise account. The resulting din, deftly recorded by WHDH engineer, Al Walker, was the perfect call to a transcendent baseball moment.
In retrospect, there were two miracles that occurred that long-ago Sunday afternoon: the 100-to-1 shot Red Sox securing the American League Pennant, and Ned Martin’s flawless, 23-second description of the final out of the contest.
I first became aware of Ned Martin in 1964 when I received a new transistor radio for my ninth birthday. As the Red Sox began Spring Training in Scottsdale, Arizona in early March, I began to tune in to the local flagship station at the time, WHDH 850 AM Boston, in order to listen to the handful of Red Sox radio broadcasts emitting from the desert. At the time, Ned Martin was the team’s broadcasting partner supporting the venerable Curt Gowdy, who was already receiving national exposure as NBC’s chief baseball and football anchorman.
From the moment I first heard Ned’s recitations, his unique style was dissimilar in both tone and approach to any other baseball broadcaster at the time. He was cerebral, ironic, expressive, low-key. Even then, I recognized that Ned was a minimalist in a profession where over-the-top enthusiasm was becoming the norm.
Constancy – not exuberance – seemed to be his modus operandus. And yet, despite his tranquil overtones, it was also evident that he had an unadulterated passion for the game. In an interview with The Globe’s Ray Fitzgerald, Martin recalled: “Red Smith used to say he loved `the music of the game.’ What a great line. There is a music to it, whether it’s the first crack of the bat at Winter Haven, a full house on Opening Day, the murmuration of a meaningless game in July, or the buzz you feel at a World Series. There’s orderliness to it as well, with batting practice; fielding practice; all of the things that take place right up to game time. Yet you can still see something in almost every game that you’ve never seen before. That’s the beauty of baseball, I guess. It’s never predictable, even though it never changes.”
It was clearly evident even at first glance that the unspeakable elements of baseball were what mattered to Ned. At first glance, Martin seemed like a seamless violinist, playing each and every note with a heady mixture of exactitude and grace. After I began listening to Ned Martin’s broadcasts, my father stated, “You know, son, you are listening to an authentic master.”
As I continued to soak in each and every one of his broadcasts, Ned’s imposing array of words and phrases that colored each game left a prevailing impression on me. In Martin’s lexis, a baseball might rocket, balloon, soar, sail, glide, dart, float, sputter, plummet, plunge, bound, skip, hop, spring, or dribble. A ferocious swing of the bat by Harmon Killebrew could create “a crosswind in the box seats.” Cleveland’s young pitcher, Luis Tiant, “uncoiled” when he delivered “the confused sphere.” Center-fielder Gary Geiger might “coax the ball down to his glove as if by supplication.” Sox reliever Dick Radatz invariably raised his hands in exultation “after setting down a gaggle of Yankees!”
Longtime Red Sox fan Michael Burns remembers: “Growing up as I did in Worcester, Massachusetts, I’ll never forget some of Ned’s beautiful and apt descriptions such as ‘hung a frozen rope,’ ‘pool-queue shot,’ ‘peeled foul,’ and “the threat goes by the boards” – phrases that filled so many of his broadcasts over the years. Like many of our fellow Red Sox fans of that era, our family would turn the TV sound down and tune in Ned’s radio play-by-play.”
Ned Martin, along with partners Ken Coleman and Mel Parnell in 1967.
Martin’s eloquence had a profound affect on my own emerging sense of language. My neighborhood in Wellesley, the embodiment of the Baby Boomer explosion that was most visible in the early 1960’s, would be the setting for gargantuan baseball games occasionally involving forty or more children. Loquacious and curious, I normally broadcast each game even as I participated in it. Ned Martin’s choice in both syntax and vocabulary slowly became part of my word arsenal. If someone “blistered” the ball between third and short, “skied” to center, “scalded” the ball by the first baseman’s glove, or threw a “laser” to home plate, I would echo Ned’s phrases. As Martin’s words began to fill my summer days with the sounds of the game, the Red Sox announcer began to transform me into a more nimble speaker without me ever realizing it.
As the seasons passed like shuffling cards, I slowly began to absorb a host of literary allusions that made Martin’s narrative brushstrokes even more compelling. One evening, a low-hanging fog shrouded eastern New England, causing the well-lit Fenway Park to appear as a massive firefly in the Back Bay horizon. When the fog continued to encircle the Fens, Ned sighed, “Fog comes/in little cat’s feet.” I glanced up at Mummie who was listening intently to Martin’s words. “CarlSandburg,” she smiled.
Later that year, during a recap of a doubleheader with the White Sox in which Boston impossibly came back to win the first game only to lose the second in heartbreaking fashion, Ned began, “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
After I looked at the radio in puzzlement, my father explained, “Mr. Martin is referring to the opening passage of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.”
When the cerebral Elston Howard joined the Red Sox for the pennant drive in 1967, Ned encapsulated Ellie’s prowess as a catcher by quoting Wordsworth: “Wisdom is sometimes nearer when we stoop then when we soar.”
Martin particularly loved to use the words of Shakespeare to help paint the scene for his listeners. Once, when describing Dick Williams’ shrewd managerial moves that had resulted in a dramatic victory for the Boston nine, Ned quoted from The Merry Wives of Windsor: “Why, then the world’s mine oyster/which I with sword will open.”
After some blatant luck – a bad bounce – had afforded the Red Sox with a fortuitous victory during the 1972 season, Martin used the Bard’s words to summarize the game, “And so, ladies and gentlemen, as Shakespeare once wrote, ‘Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.’”
Three years later, when he was teamed with the legendary Jim Woods, the two announcers found themselves in an extra-inning contest in Oakland in which both bullpens were outwardly spent. Martin ended up citing Macbeth: “If you can look into the seeds of time and say, which grain will grow, and which will not, speak then to me.”
Ernest Hemingway was a particular favorite of Ned’s; he seemed to recognize the pathos that swathed the writer’s work. After a series of managerial movements by Don Zimmer seemed to fall flat for the team in a contest with the Orioles in the late seventies, Martin used a noted Hemingway line as the focal point at the conclusion of a post-game summary. “Never confuse movement with action,” Ned whispered as he signed off for the evening.
When we listened at the beach, in our bedrooms, or from our cars to the sage commentary of Ned Martin, we intrinsically recognized that we had in our midst a cerebral reader-baseball announcer, who relished Willie Mays as much as Ernest Hemingway. Over the expanse of the seasons, Ned’s music became the vinyl for my own developing interest in timeless literature. While I struggled as a reader early on, I soon began to tackle the classics, thanks to the inspiration provided by the man behind the Red Sox mike.
The artistry of Ned Martin seemed to soar especially when he was “on the radio side” of the airwaves. The Globe’s Bill Griffith eloquently explained the culture of baseball radio broadcasting before television became king: “TV production and replays were still in relative infancy in those days – and telecasts were mostly limited to weekends – so it was common for Sox fans to have the game on radio. Tales of being able to walk down the street and follow the game from the radios on people’s porches were true. Baseball was a game made for listening on summer nights and for youngsters to follow in the time-honored radio-under-the-pillow manner.”
As the venerable Art Martone wrote in a poignant tribute to Ned in The Providence Journal after Ned died, “Martin’s was the perfect voice for the day-to-day flow of this sport.”
While Ned was both urbane and eloquent, brevity was at the core of his success, a quality that, except for Red Barber and Vin Scully, has never been duplicated by any other baseball announcer. Art Martone lucidly remembered that quality in The Providence Journal:
“He frequently seemed detached from, rather than immersed in, the day-to-day workings of the team and the game . . . and thus was able to provide a context that other announcers could never hope to capture. My favorite Ned Martin call from the 1967 ‘Impossible Dream’ album was not the ‘pandemonium’ clip that everyone’s mentioning today, but from the day before. The Sox were leading the Twins, 3-2, in the eighth inning on Saturday afternoon — remember, they had to win both Saturday and Sunday to stay alive in the race — and Carl Yastrzemski put the game away with a three-run homer off Jim Merritt in the eighth inning. It wasn’t so much the call itself that I liked, but the postscript he added when the cheering began to subside.”
“‘If you’ve just turned your radio on,’ Ned said in a voice tinged with a tiny hint of disbelief, and then he gave just the slightest dramatic pause, ‘it’s happened again. Yastrzemski’s hit a three-run homer, and it’s now 6-2, Red Sox!’”
The one signature call Ned ultimately became famous for, “mercy,” was something that leisurely developed through time. While it often was stated after a particularly imposing homer, strikeout, or fielding play, he also used it an interjection of remorse, regret, even pathos. Irony was alwaysat play when Ned Martin called a game.
In early each Red Sox broadcast, even the most casual of listeners could discern a hint of melancholy in Ned Martin’s voice. While he obviously rooted for the Red Sox, he served as the antithesis of the over-the-top terrain inhabited by the Celtics’ Johnny Most, who called each game as if it were describing the Passion Play. There were even times when Ned would gently hint to his listeners about the possibilities of defeat just as it seemed as if the team was on the cusp of victory.
After 14 seasons broadcasting Red Sox baseball, Ned Martin gained a new broadcasting partner in 1974 with the arrival of Jim “The Possum” Woods. Pugnacious, impulsive, and anecdotal, Woods would serve as a brilliant converse to Martin throughout their five celebrated years together. In Woods’ hale hearty, good fellow world, Ned became Nedly and every topic under the heavens was open for discussion.
Martin especially took great delight in bantering with “The Possum” over his days as the number-two announcer to the longtime Pirates broadcaster, the legendary Bob Prince. Because “The Possum” and the brash Prince were two of the most legendary beer connoisseurs in Major League history, Ned once asked, “Did Budweiser sponsor you, or did you two sponsor Bud?”(My favorite Woods moment occurred in a rain delay in Oakland, when The Possum gushed, “And here into the booth comes six great friends of mine – all of them named Bud!” Martin’s sustained laughter was heard all the way into the commercial break).
Animated and spontaneous, Woods inevitably seemed to always bring out the best in Martin. Listening to two such erudite yet disparate men night after night made the summer months seem more fleeting. Even then, I recognized then that we were steadfastly ensconced in a provisional Golden Era, where names like Martin, Woods, the Gold Dust Twins, Yaz, El Tiante, Rooster, Pudge, and Dewey were firmly embedded in both the hearts and minds of Red Sox Nation.
When two such unswerving iconoclasts were subsequently ordered to promote the sponsors’ products more vociferously on the air, Martin and Woods ultimately balked, resulting in their collective dismissals at the end of the 1978 season. While Ned was eventually rehired as NESN’s principal baseball announcer, Jim Woods was not. As Art Martone reflected in The Providence Journal: “Ned Martin’s strengths became less and less important to the radio industry as it evolved from what it was in the 1960s to what it is today. ‘Quiet and intelligent’ doesn’t play over the airwaves these days; modern radio execs like shrillness and hysteria. His profession changed, and Ned Martin couldn’t — or wouldn’t — change with it.”
Ultimately, Ned Martin would serve as the Red Sox television announcer for another 14 seasons before being summarily dismissed at the end of the 1992 season. While there were pockets of brilliance throughout his telecasts, his discreet eloquence often fell flat in the visual realm of television. He sometimes seemed confused as to whether he should fill the silence with prose. It was as if Bobby Orr was restricted from ever crossing the red line.
By his last year with the Sox, 1992, baseball and television had resolutely entered the age of Sportscenter, in-your-face journalism, and enduring union-owner-agent greed. At the time, Ned seemed slightly anachronistic, a gentleman in a society of “me-firsts.” In Bill Griffith’s accolade to Martin in The Globe, his last TV partner, Jerry Remy, talked about Martin’s contentious dismissal: ‘“Ned was sad the last week of that season because he’d learned that NESN wasn’t going to bring him back for the next year. And I knew they were afraid he might say something on the air. There was no chance of that. Not surprisingly, he went out with dignity and class.’”
Ned Martin subsequently retired to Clarksville, Virginia where he spent time with his beloved wife, Barbara, a bevy of dogs, and his cat, Emily. While we in Red Sox Nation occasionally heard his tranquil, reassuring voice from his new outpost via the talk show circuit, he seemed at peace in his new surroundings, a fitting closing act for a serene man.
In 2001, Ned Martin was both astonished and stirred when he was named to the Red Sox Hall of Fame. At the reception that year, he received the most vigorous and sustained ovation of any recipient. On July 22, 2002, Martin attended the Ted Williams Tribute at Fenway Park, where he interviewed old friend, Carl Yastrzemski, the other Sox legend who debued with the team 41 years previously. The next afternoon, Ned died of a massive coronary at the Raleigh-Durham airport, a few miles from his home.
Serendipitously, his last public appearance had been on the infield at Fenway as a blinding sun sheltered the park from the unforgiving dimness of night. The night after he died, I was reminded of a broadcast that Martin made two decades previously on the last day of the 1989 season. As dusk descended over the field, Ned ended the broadcast thusly: “The game is over, the lights are dimming, winter is approaching, and it’s time to go home. And so from Fenway Park this is Ned Martin, farewell for now.”
In the final analysis, the great Ned Martin incessantly stressed the enduring narrative of life through the potent medium of sports broadcasting. From his lens, the seasons ran together like an impressionist painting. Over time, they became chapters in a book that seemed to accentuate the same recurring theme over and over again even as hundreds of players entered and exited the tale like apparitions in a drawn-out war.
But Ned Martin was more than just an invaluable bard – he was also a master-teacher. Ultimately, he served as a mentor to thousands of New Englanders who faithfully listened to his broadcasts year after year. Without knowing it, he not only vastly extended our vocabularies, but instilled in many of us an infatuation for language that stuck with us long after he broadcast his last game for the Boston nine. Mr. Martin provided countless baseball fans with a landscape of metaphor and simile that enabled us to apply the gift of comparative language to own lives as both speakers and writers.
For me, Ned Martin gave me a focal point, a purpose, a sense of the possibilities, a future. Over the past 40 years, I have entered my classroom each and every day as his undisclosed yet grateful apprentice, efficiently equipped to provoke and kindle my students with the same elixir of perspicuity and insight that he first used on me four decades ago. After all, I became an English teacher because of Ned Martin. Early on in my professional career, my first headmaster asked me, “Shaun, who most influenced you to become an educator?”
I gazed out my classroom window as the trees began to sway in rhythm. I looked back at him and whispered, “Ned Martin.”
Sadly, however, I never had the chance to say “thank you” to him. “Regrets are as personal as fingerprints,” sighed Hemingway after the death of Scott Fitzgerald. Because Mr. Martin seemed eternally vigorous, I always thought that there would be time to drop him a note that would convey to Ned how much he meant to me – and to us. Unfortunately, this little essay will have to suffice.
In a lovely piece entitled, “A Day of Light and Shadow,” first published 42 years ago in Sports Illustrated, acclaimed musicologist Jonathan Schwartz wrote,“Ned Martin is as articulate and creative a sportscaster as there is in the country. He is often poetic and moving. ‘The Yankee score is up,’ Ned observed late last in September from Toronto, where scores remained only momentarily on the electric board. ‘Soon it too will be gone,’ he continued in his usual quiet tone. ‘It will flash away like a lightening bug into the chilly Canadian night.’”
In my mind, the poignancy – the vulnerability – that sometimes crept into his broadcasts, made Ned even more endearing in the end. Perhaps this was all because he had experienced the horrors of war as a Marine in the South Pacific. Three days after Martin died, ESPN’s Keith Olbermann wrote: ”He was a subtle, controlled, educated man, from Duke via Iwo Jima. His favorite on-air expression of surprise or delight was `Mercy,’ and in a summer in which we have lost Jack Buck, Darryl Kile, Irv Kaze, Ted Williams, and Jim Warfield, that quote from Hamlet, which Ned Martin always invoked in times of crisis seems all too tearfully appropriate: ‘When sorrows come, they come not as single spies, but in battalions.”’
An unfussy romantic, Martin often used musical allusions to describe the choreography of baseball. The game had a certain rhythm and Ned was most cognizant of its nature, the season, and the fixed beat that seemed to slowly dissipate as fall began to envelop our region.
During an extended rain delay in Cleveland in the mid-seventies, Ned and his compadre, Jim Woods, impulsively began to discuss their own favorite musical numbers over the years. Suddenly, as if on a dare, Martin began to croon out the old Kurt Weill classic, “The September Song,” a standard that his beloved Sinatra had once sung so well. As Martin began to sing, I instantly recognized that I was getting a rare glimpse into the soul of an introvert:
For it’s a long, long time
From May to December
And the days grow short
When you reach September
And the autumn weather
Turns the leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time
For the waiting game
As the days dwindle down
To a precious few
And these few precious days
I’ll spend with you
These golden days
I’ll spend with you.
From 1961 to 1992, we were fortunate to have spent a plethora of golden days with Ned Martin as we listened to him artfully describe the daily episodes of a team that truly mattered to us all in the end. Despite the dark clouds that sometimes rolled inside of him, Martin was able to emit a prevailing luminosity that was able to cut through the shadows of our own lives. The best Boston sportscaster of them all showed us the way even as he guided us through the haze of the seasons.
There is an old proverb that states, “Power lasts ten years; influence not more than a hundred.” While no Baseball Hall of Fame induction seems in the cards for him – he would surely love the incongruity of that – Ned Martin’s influence remains a part of me every time I teach. More importantly, the music that he made for millions of Red Sox fans who came to depend on his illuminating, lyrical voice is worth far more than any bronze plaque hung in some squared, dimly-lit hallway in Upstate New York.
“Back in 1899/When everybody sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’/A hundred years took a long,long time/For every boy and girl/Now there’s only one thing to know/Where did the twentieth century go?/I swear it was here just a minute ago/All over this world.” – Steve Goodman, “The Twentieth Century’s Almost Over,” 1977
Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1979. I gather my yellow legal pad and pen and smile as a compact, amicable young man sits down across from me. He is both energized and dehydrated after an hour’s performance and gulps several glasses of seltzer-water as he answered my question between mouthfuls of refreshment. As we sit down at an oversized maple sideboard, a gaggle of devoted members of the audience approach the young man, asking him for an autograph. He makes small talk with each of them, and signs his name, Steve Goodman, on assorted pages of the Living Section of a discarded Boston Globe.
At the time, I well knew the young performer’s music. Nine years previously, Steve Goodman had composed an American musical classic, “The City of New Orleans” – “the best damn train song ever written,” John Prine had gushed when he first heard it. It was Arlo Guthrie’s popular version of the ballad, which made it a cash-cow for the Chicagoan ever since. Throughout the 1970’s, Goodman had subsequently composed indelible memorable tunes for such musical luminaries as Joan Baez, Johnny Cash, Jimmy Buffett, Linda Ronstadt, Willie Nelson, John Denver, Jerry Jeff Walker, and Emmylou Harris. While his own cult status was mostly limited to the East Coast and his native Midwest, nevertheless, Steve Goodman had culled an enthusiastic and loyal following.
Steve and I ended up talking about the unforgiving entertainment industry, his recent Grammy for acoustic-guitar performing, and why he had unfairly remained a footnote rather than a star in the musical world.
Just before it was time for his second set, I asked Goodman a final question: “Why would you write and record a song about the end of the Twentieth Century when we have nearly a fifth of the century yet to go?”
The singer-songwriter smiled for a minute and then stated, “You know, there’s an answer to that which I will tell you after my set is over. Okay?”
“For sure,” I replied. Goodman then hopped up onto the stage.
“Does anyone remember the Great Depression?
I read all about it in True Confessions
Sorry, I was late for the recording session
But somebody put me on hold;
Has anyone seen my linoleum floors, petroleum jelly –
And two world wars?
They got stuck in the revolving door –
All over this world.”
Even thought he was barely 30 years old at the time, Steve Goodman recognized that time didn’t march on like some interminable battalion. Instead, it seemed to stealthily tiptoe on its own variable pace. As the singer-songwriter himself wrote, “All we have left are those memories/That are most deserving to recall.” It was obvious that Steve Goodman believed that fervently.
Exactly 40 years after I spoke with the seasoned musical performer in Cambridge, I found myself reminiscing with a twenty-something faculty member at school about the first “Armistice Day” Parade I attended as a six-year-old in Wellesley, Massachusetts. I smiled when I recalled my father, still young and vibrant, marching with a legion of his fellow World War II veterans. At the front of the parade, however, strode a beaming nonagenarian who still had a pronounced spring in his steps. I soon learned from my mother that he was a cavalryman in the Spanish American War. We showered him with hosannas as he passed by our perch near the Wellesley Town Hall. When I shared this antidote with my fledgling English teacher-friend, she looked at me with amazement. “Good God,” she sighed.
My late mother seemed to comprehend the essence of time and its bridge-like effect when, one day, she asked me to shake her hand. I then looked at her with puzzlement. She paused and then exclaimed, “When I was a little girl, my Great Uncle John Whiting purposely shook my hand and said, ‘Now you’ve shaken the hand of someone who fought at the Battle of Antietam.” Mummie then smiled at me and bellowed, “So you too can now say that you’ve shaken the hand of someone who shook the hand of a relative who fought in the Civil War!”
I then recalled that when I was a little boy, I used to cuddle next to my grandmother and ask her what life was like in “the old days.” She talked to me about horse-drawn milk carts, the fabled Blizzard of 1896, the brilliance of the night sky before Edison. To me, it seemed as if she had lived an eternity.
Now I know differently. When I took my oldest son to Fenway Park for the first time in 2003, Max asked me why the aisles and seats in the old ballpark were so narrow. “Because Fenway was built in 1912,” I replied. “It was designed for nineteenth-century bodies. People were much smaller back then. Our diets increased and improved over the years.”
Towards the end of the game, I glimpsed at one of the seats and imagined my grandmother, a tiny, fragile figure, a remnant of the 1800’s, sitting in her chair – quite comfortably – rooting for Cy Young and Babe Ruth in Red Sox uniforms.
“Winter’s getting colder, summer’s getting hotter
Our wishing well’s wishing for another drop of water
Mother Earth’s blushin’ cause somebody caught her
Making loving to the man in the moon.
Now how are you going to keep them
Down on the farm
Now that outer space has lost its charm?
Somebody just set off the burglar alarm
And not a moment too soon.”
Because of modern time’s population explosion, more than three-fifths of all human beings who ever lived were born in the past eight decades. Consequently, people did more living in this time period than in all the other centuries combined. On the downside, more humans died in war from 1914-1975 than in the previous thirty centuries of human existence. In contrast, billions of people live more substantive, energetic, healthy lives than ever before. Names, places, items, art, music, linguistic expressions, and fads – even nations and their governments – have come in and out of our lives like passing ships.
To those who lived through the past seven decades, the progress we have observed has been incalculable. In 1961, for instance, the United States launched its first astronaut into the cosmos, Navy Commander Alan Shepard. His Mercury 7 spacecraft spent just 15 minutes in space before splashing down in the Atlantic. A Mickey Mantle popup went higher than Al Shepard, quipped comedian Shelley Berman at the time. Just eight years later, three American pioneers ventured 226,000 miles into deep space, landed on the moon, and returned safely to Earth. Last week, I asked my eighth-graders how many of them had ventured to at least two continents in their short lives. Virtually everyone had. The new generation have become world-travelers as a matter of course.
Still, there are detriments to such progress. If modern times were given a motto which could capture the previous one hundred years, it would be… “With Progress – Nothing Lasts.” Consequently, each decade seems to be its own Brigadoon; it dissolves into the mist – never to be seen again. As those of us who have lived through the Twentieth Century know, the 1950’s were an extraordinarily different time from the 1990’s. We almost could have been living in different centuries. For most of the history of the world, however, progress was hardly noticeable. People perished in the same spot they were born in. For years, I taught a searing historical novel to sixth-graders called The Borning Room. It centered on the room off the kitchen where members of the same family were born, were sick, had children, and died as old folks in the same room. The only thing that changed was their age.
In our modern world, though, if one moves away from his or her hometown and returns ten years later, the place is hardly recognizable. Even change in the workplace is both exhausting and whimsical. In 1984, I began teaching with an authentic educational mentor, Mrs. Edith Whelden, who started toiling at The Fessenden School in West Newton, Massachusetts, the week after the Germans invaded Poland and World War II began. When she finally retired as a teacher in 1987 – Edith was a staple at the school for 48 years – she chuckled as she mimeographed her last math handout: “I began my first day getting purple on my hands, and here I am nearly 50 years later still getting purple on my hands!”
Like Edith Wheldon, I began with mimeograph-purple ink on my hands, but that was scores of changes ago. Today, I use Google Classroom, a SmartBoard M600, and a Lenovo PC as my teaching weapons by choice and decree. Edith Whelden’s professional career was framed within the context of a three-mile an hour world. In comparison, mine has been at Mach 1 speed. In the end, life today is not written in granite but in ever-changing sand. No wonder a lot of us have been clinging to the past.
“Old Father Time has got his toes a tappin’
Standin’ in the window grumblin’ and rappin’
Everybody’s waiting for something to happen,
Tell me if it happens to you.
The Judgement Day is getting nearer
There it is in the rearview mirror!
If you could duck down, I could see a little clearer –
All over this world.”
With the Cambridge audience singing and clapping along, Steve Goodman completed his second and final set singing the refrain of “The Twentieth Century’s Almost Over.” He then shouted out to the Passim crowd: “Let’s celebrate before it becomes passe!” Everyone instantly laughed and gave him a heartfelt standing ovation. Steve walked off the stage and motioned for me to join him at his table once again.
After he had drank a quart of fresh water, Goodman remarked to me: “Shaun, you asked me why I wrote ‘Twentieth Century’ with 23 years left in the 1900’s? I composed it because you never know if you are going to be around for such an event; you could drop dead at any moment. There have been so many crazy things that have happened our time, despicable, head-scratching things. That said, everything that I have ever loved in this world also existed during this time. When the clock strikes midnight on January 1, 2000, there will be a lot to say goodbye to then. Don’t you think?” The performer shook my hand briskly and then disappeared into his dressing room.
I did not know then that he was undergoing extensive chemotherapy in that fall in 1979. He would live five more years and die, much too young at 36, a victim of leukemia. Thus, Steve Goodman would not live to see the ticking of the millennium clock in Times Square on January 1, 2000.
For the past few weeks, I have thought about Steve Goodman. I have also thought about the scores of people who ended up touching my soul through the past 65 years. Many of them have passed on; many are still a vibrant presence in my life. All of us, however, are rooted in the times we experienced together.
Recently, when I visited my hometown, Wellesley, Massachusetts, I ended up walking around the local graveyard, Woodlawn Cemetery, as tranquil and beautiful a resting-place as there is in New England. I stopped and reflected at the gravesites of friends who died too young in car crashes, cancer, or various addictions. I paid my respects to a host of family and friends who had encouraged me as a child. I paused at the monuments of teachers who had seen something in me that I hadn’t recognized previously. I even weeded the grounded nameplate of one of my loyal customers when I was a bag-boy at the Wellesley Super Market. Unlike her venerated daughter, Sylvia, whose tombstone in England is an iconic spot for thousands who visit it each year, Aurelia Plath’s memorial has been untouched since I last weeded it the previous year.
As I turned the far corner of the cemetery, I stopped at a final resting-place, my parents’ gravesite, which overlooked the site of our family’s old house on adjacent Radcliffe Road. Suddenly, I could hear my parents ghostly laughter. After all, here was their youngest child standing above them now as an old man. “Welcome to the fold!” they seemed to say. “Enjoy it all while you can, and remember – enjoy the ride! After all, you’ll never know when it will end.”
As Steve Goodman told me during his interview with me forty years ago this month, “Our time here on Earth is the connective tissue for us all. That is why we should never forget that we’re all in this thing called life together.”
As Virgil once wrote: Omne momentum rei est pretiosum, habens in essentia finis. (Every moment is a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.)
It is precisely 7:30 am on the stove clock as I open the screen porch abutting our kitchen. I traipse through our porch, wrapped in a massive Boston Red Sox towel. I then maneuver down the wooden steps towards the base of our outdoor shower less than ten feet away.
From early April to Columbus Day Weekend, I have taken scores of showers here. However, on this mid-October day, it’s getting colder, and the fall weather is getting too brisk for both bodies and water pipes. Thus, this will be my last outdoor shower of the year. In the distance behind our house, an abandoned nest of a family of ospreys, who deserted their salt marsh home the previous month, now lies vacant. To me, this is a tangible reminder that change is the essential ingredient to any New England season.
As I alight our stone steps, I quickly open the latch of the shower and clamber inside, hanging my towel up carefully on a hook on the left side of the structure. Four stately scrub pines frame the cobalt sky above their finger-limbs, brushing back and forth from a relentless east wind. The sun creeps across the marsh and makes splotches on the rust-colored pod that forms our outdoor shower.
As I take off the last of my undergarments, a chilling wind cuts through me like a knife, a calling card that another Massachusetts winter is fast approaching. As I turn the nozzle to the left for “high heat,” the caw-caw cry of a recalcitrant crow greets me with an arrogance that is almost reassuring. His hubris reminds me that it is I who am the visitor on my own property.
Steam commences arising from the shower as I begin to lather myself under a beckoning sun. I am suddenly enveloped in its prevailing warmth, which staves off the biting, 50 degree-temperature morning that had greeted me. The mid-autumn sky is cleansed to such a degree that it seems as if God Himself washed away any shadows.
As I continue to soak my hair, the blustery, chick-a-dee-dee-dee call from the lowest branch of a nearby red maple from an adult chickadee welcomes me like an old friend. I smile when I remember that I once fed many of this little bandit’s ancestors as a boy. I would place sunflower seeds in my outstretched right hand and then watch as a small flock of “the cheeky ones” picked them off my palm in a series of fearsome swoops,
As I finish rinsing, I then glance out at the salt marsh to my right and see the golden colors of the marsh blend with the blueberry-colored water of the North Atlantic that has seeped in with the tide. In another two hours, the entire marsh will be flooded by water pouring in from Cape Cod Bay. Above the ocean-swamp, I eventually observe a colony of seagulls begin to pounce on some unsuspecting minnows. A few of them dangle in the mouths of the gulls, who dart away from the scene with a nonchalance, which is almost breathtaking.
Even though the water for our shower is from our own well and doesn’t cost me a thing, I firmly twist the handle to the left. As the son of an environmentalist-mother who donated the adjacent salt marsh to the Eastham Conservation Foundation, I have been taught that nature is not a place to visit. It is home.
For the next five months, my showers will be upstairs and indoors until the season of new life – spring – visits this fragile outpost once again.