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As a music fan born some years after this single was released, I count myself fortunate in having some inkling as to what it must have been like as a music buyer in this sixties period we now find ourselves. In a glorious few years straddling the mid to late eighties, personally favoured acts like The Smiths, Cocteau Twins, New Order etc all hit a purple patch whereby they invariably seemed to be releasing new material on a weekly basis with their respective labels happy to promote the product. There was nothing precious about anything they were doing, no three year gaps between albums that were then strip mined white for singles; if they had a song then it was released as a single, if they had three or four then it was an E.P. and when they had an album, one was duly released. It all seems another world now. Maybe it was.
Similarly, 'Day Tripper' and 'We Can Work It Out' were the first publicly released results from The Beatles' 'Rubber Soul' sessions, though neither track appeared on that album, a move that resulted from the type of confidence born from talent to burn and the knowledge that 'giving away' two songs on one single would in no way diminish the quality of the album to come. On first listen, 'Day Tripper' plays out almost impenetrably in its obtuseness, but substitute that 'she's a big teaser' with Lennon's original (but unbroadcastable) 'she's a prick teaser' then some of the scales fall away. In the space of two years, The Beatles had moved from the coyness of wanting to hold someone's hand to essaying a good time girl who not only forgoes relationships for a series of one night stands, but is also shameless in her promiscuity. Had The Beatles changed or was it just a reflection of the changing times?
Probably a bit of both I think - to be fair, I've always heard 'Day Tripper' as a bridge between the screamdadelica of the band's Merseysound days and the more mature period to come, and as such it would have been a square peg in the round hole of 'Rubber Soul' in any case. Harrison's plucked guitar riff holds hands with 'Ticket To Ride' in a walk to a more controlled future not dependant on the screaming hordes, but those 'it took me soooooooo long's are pure 'she loves you' harmony bludgeon - 'Day Tripper' is a transitional single and the last time The Beatles would bow down at the altar of commerciality.
'We Can Work It Out' is the more sedate of the pairing, with McCartney's laid back questioning riding an understated lower key rhythm as he tries to reason a troubled relationship back onto an even keel. Though Beatles songs had been credited to Lennon/McCartney from early days, it's no secret that they were rarely collaborations of equal input and 'We Can Work It Out' is the first clear example of the split in their contributions with McCartney's conciliatory lightness standing in stark contrast with Lennon's frustrated darkness as he butts in with a very blunt reminder "Life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting" that may be a cliché but is no less true because of it.
It's this friction that made The Beatles the success that they were, a healthy competition where each songwriter competed with and cancelled out the weakness in the other while at the same time complimenting each other's strengths. 'We Can Work It Out' is a song that could have appeared on 'Rubber Soul' with no problem at all and it marks a point zero for me, the moment where The Beatles became more than just another band and started to influence and define the culture around them instead of following in its wake.
'The Carnival Is Over' first came to my attention in 1986 via Nick Cave's cover version on 'Kicking Against The Pricks', though the tune was already familiar to me from a hymn our school used to sing at morning Assembly. For these reasons and more I'd kind of assumed that it was an old folk tune that The Seekers had dusted off so it came as no small surprise to find out that the band's Tom Springfield actually wrote it. And after being seduced by Cave's take that suggested all manner of doom laden partings, it came as no small disappointment to realise that the reference to "Pierrot and Columbine" in the lyrics makes the song more literal than metaphorical, with the 'carnival' not being representative of good times now over but an actual troupe packing up and leaving town. Which at a stroke divests it of much of its appeal as surely as if it transpired 'Like A Rolling Stone' was actually about boulders tumbling down a mountain.
So, fatally holed then? Well not really - no longer believing in Santa doesn't mean I can't still enjoy Christmas and Judith Durham's voice is always a delight, but at the same time I can't help but believe that The Seekers don't know how to play their own song. "How it breaks my heart to leave you, now the carnival is gone" - Mr Cave knew how to wring these lyrics till they wept, but The Seekers deliver it with the mannered emotional charge of the campfire singalong that characterised most of their output (I think that B side is very, very telling). And maybe that's the problem - Cave could record 'Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep' and make it sound like the end of the world so perhaps there was always something too 'up' and sunny about The Seekers to do maudlin properly.
If he can't get no satisfaction then Mick's going to do the next best thing and take his ball home - 'Get Off Of My Cloud' is the sound of Jagger beating a retreat to "an apartment on the ninety-ninth floor of my block" where he can "sit at home looking out the window imagining the world has stopped", holding parties till 3 in morning and to hell with the neighbours. It's an audacious statement, a glimpse into the inner court where we the listener aren't particularly welcome ("Don't hang around 'cause two's a crowd on my cloud, baby") even if we did provide the means for him to settle on that cloud in the first place.
Still on a roll after '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction', 'Get Off Of My Cloud' is another bucket filled from the same well, albeit one that sounds like a 'Satisfaction' left out in the rain. The guitars still blaze and Jagger still honks, but there's a woozy organ dribbling away in the background that tames the sharp edges and blurs them into an impressionistic watercolour. Which is apt enough because without the lyrics in front of us, we the listener would be hard pressed to make out much of what Jagger was yelling about beyond a general sense that he's not happy and the rest of the world is to blame. Which is 'Get Off Of My Cloud' in a nutshell, a bold leap of nihilism that tests the faith of the audience of a band that twelve short months ago were scrabbling around in their record collections for suitable songs to cover.
Growing up in the seventies and eighties as I did meant that a lot of 'entertainers' came to my attention via second hand means. For example, Jimmy Young I will forever regard as the Radio 2 disc jockey my mother used to listen to in the mornings and not as a double number one recording artist, Des O'Connor will always be a light entertainment, heavy tanned chat show host and not a one time number one recording artist, while Ken Dodd will always be a buck toothed, mop haired comic with a tickling stick and Diddymen. Harsh maybe, but I can't help when I was born and it's no different to Tom Baker being 'my' Doctor Who and Roger Moore being 'my' James Bond, for better or for worse. And of the three above it's Ken who suffers most from my own brand of branding - a quick glance at the figures shows he had no less than twenty top forty hits between 1960 and 1975, which isn't bad going for anyone, though 'Tears' was his sole chart topper.*
So what of it then? Well, dating from 1929, 'Tears' is a classic old school crooner's song from a time when females weren't 'babes' and love was handled with the same formal respect ("Tears have been my only consolation, but tears can't mend a broken heart I must confess") that Dodd shows this. There's no trace of his comedian 'day job' in his treatment - he means it man and though Dodd is a competent singer, his fussy and quite prissy diction ensures the upper lip is kept stiff enough not to let any genuine emotion show either way. It makes 'Tears' a bit like turkey without the cranberry sauce - perfectly edible by itself, but rather dry, tasteless and not something you'd care to have too much of.
*I can't leave it lie there though - nestled in with The Beatles and The Stones, 'Tears' looks and sounds like a song out of time, almost as if it slipped through a wormhole from a much earlier decade by mistake and was frantically looking for a way back. And yet this was the biggest selling single of 1965 (and the third biggest selling of the entire decade), outselling stone cold classics like ''Mr Tambourine Man', '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction' and 'You've Lost That Loving Feelin'' - it begs - nay, demands - the question 'why'? Why should such an unremarkable song from an unremarkable singer make such an impact in an era of unprecedented musical development and change? Did Scouser Dodd catch a wave via a heavy marketing campaign as the 'original Merseysound'? Was it an orchestrated backlash from the previous generation looking to put the brakes on the social upheavals exploding around them by finding an anchor to the past? And what did those sixties stars think when their studio innovations were trumped by a jobbing singer with a thirty year old tune? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know and I don't know. There are no answers yet 'Tears' remains, a song as out of time now as it was in 1965.
And while we're on the subject of DNA, my personal view on the number ones from Brothers Righteous and Walker is as opposite polymers of the double helix that wraps itself around the same strand of a broken down relationship. The Righteous Brothers wanted to re-splice the break to bring back that loving feeling, but the Walker's would rather see the two hurtle off in opposite directions, albeit on their own terms with a bittersweet kiss off. Neither song stints on the drama, but though the wall of sound that 'Make It Easy On Yourself' pastes itself on doesn't have 'Phil Spector Was Here' sprayed on it the way 'You've Lost That Loving Feelin' does, his influence on the kettle drum of soundstorm seas that Scott Walker's love boat gets tossed around on is obvious.
"Oh, breaking up is so very hard to do" - lead Walker Scott emotes his lines like they're being dragged out of him by torture, making his "Don't try to spare my feelings, just tell me that we're through" entreat sound as genuine as a thirty pound note - this is not what he wants to hear at all. Though Scott's aiming for a clean break, there's little here that's going to lessen the guilt pill for his departing lover.... unless that's kind of the point; maybe this particular heartbreak is all one way traffic and the "So run to him, before you start crying too" is more indicative of wishful thinking than reciprocated feeling.
But however you read it, 'Make It Easy On Yourself' is a big bowl of hurting for at least one party and it pulls off a level of Shangri-Las at the opera angst that makes it buzz with the drama of theatre. And to that end, Scott cuts a lonely, impoverished Miss Haversham figure in splendid isolation with his cake of memories, wallowing in the "Oh, baby, it's so hard to do" reverse schadenfreude of knowing that making it easier for her makes it all the harder for him. 'Make It Easy On Yourself' plays like a Victorian mausoleum with angels and Greek pillars, a grand and overblown statement of quasi celebration of mourning for something where a simple, more dignified letting go might have been more fitting. But that's not what teen angst is all about, and in that 'Make It Easy On Yourself' knows its audience well and plays directly to that particular gallery quite magnificently.
'Der der, der der derrrrrrrr' der der der' - yes it's all about "the riff" isn't it, the one that honks across the width of '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction' like the backing horn blare of a Stax soul review. Weld that to Jagger's 'I can't get no's and you have a double helix directly from the heart of rock's DNA, a statement as talismanic to the genre as the Statue of Liberty is to New York and almost as clichéd. Indeed, it's hard to imagine a pre-1965 world where it didn't exist; in my own private version of 'Rock Dreams' I picture Keith spending hours in his bedsit, noodling on his guitar to come up with a song that pays homage to - but doesn't rip off - his heroes Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters before throwing it downstairs in a 'fuck it' of frustration only to hear those chords picked out by the stair treads as the fretboard hits them on its way down. Never happened of course,* but "the riff " is that simple; a basic claw at an A chord that begs the question why nobody bothered to come up with it before?
There's more to it than that of course; as John Lennon had already attested on 'Help!', fame has its dark sky downside, but whereas all he wanted was a quiet corner and somebody to listen, Jagger is rampant in his disillusioned strut around his own brave new world after it's hit home that money can't buy happiness. 'Satisfaction' is a blues, but a very different variety born from the Thames rather than the Mississippi; a post consumerist, pre situationist white boy rant at the banality of manufactured modern life ("When I'm watching my TV and a man comes on to tell me how white my shirts can be") and his total lack of engagement with the world that fame has opened up.
Or, as Guy Debord would shortly point in 'La Société du spectacle" - "The spectacle is not a collection of images; rather, it is a social relationship between people that is mediated by images". Mick Jagger as social philosopher? Nah, I ain't buyin' it - not least because there's irony in the fact that Debord's book would shortly form a central plank of the ideological backbone behind the 1968 Paris riots, an event that the Stones would commemorate in 'Street Fighting Man' little knowing that they'd already done as much three years previously (in fact, Jagger on this always reminds me of Spinal Tap's Nigel Tufnel and his fussing over his too small sandwiches than any voice for the Situationist International).
Rock stars feeling hard done by rarely make for engaging listening material - even the girl he's trying to 'make' won't jump in the sack with him because it's her time of the month ("baby better come back later next week 'cause you see I'm on losing streak"). Poor Mick, he just can't win and his voice drips with a spitting pissed petulance (look at that titular double negative) that for the first time is all his own and not a borrowed impersonation from the country he's now disillusioned with. But even so, 'Satisfaction' carries a driving urgency that doesn't allow dust to dwell on what a whingeing git Mick is being. Wyman's snapping bass provides solid filler whenever the klaxxon of '"the riff'" dies down while Charlie's swinging truncheon drumbeat keeps the violence within the grooves so that no matter how often it's played, 'Satisfaction' has never becomes a parody of itself. For better or for worse '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction' is white man blues, a call to arms of discontent with edge sharp enough to cut a valley of space between themselves and The Beatles. It's the sound of a band finding their own feet on their own terms and able to start shaping the present and the future instead of borrowing from the past.
* Apparently, Keith came up with the riff in his sleep and wrote it down quickly before drifting back to nod. Something else he shares with Coleridge then, apart from the drugs.
The first time we've come across the word 'babe' on our travels? I think so - it's a very 'sixties' term after all, and Sonny Bono wrote this as part homage, part pastiche, part 'answer' to Dylan's 'It Ain't Me Babe' for his then wife Cher, just to let her know that it was him, babe. Whatever merits Sonny had as a songwriter (and there were many), his de-merits as a singer outweighed them in a ration of about 4:1, not least when his voice is put in a no place to hide boxing ring duet with Cher's booming contralto. He's game enough, but in trying to compete he strangles himself with his own tongue on most of his lines while Cher keeps herself in careful check so as not to show him up further.
But do you know what? It doesn't matter - 'I Got You Babe' is pop bubblegum to be sure, but it doesn't try to be anything other, and there's an obvious chemistry and affection between the two that gives the song a smart edge of charm ("So let them say your hair's too long, when I'm with you I know I can't go wrong") that only the hardest of hearts could take issue with. Take that 'right here, right now' spark of alchemy away and 'I Got You Babe' becomes a different proposition entirely, as UB40 & Chrissie Hynde so ably demonstrated.
Back in 1986, long defunct music weekly 'Sounds' printed its 'All Time Top 100' singles list. Largely made up of suspects so usual they don't need to be lined up, the sole entry from The Beatles (way down at number 57) was 'Help!'. What did they hear in it for it to be singled out from the rest of the canon I wonder? Maybe the same thing The Damned did - one place below it in the same chart was the latter's 'New Rose', unique as the first punk single and one that had a cover of 'Help!' on the B side. Interesting.
"Help me if you can, I'm feeling down" - the 'artist' getting all angsty is usually a cue for me to reach for the off button; there's a whole raft of 'confessional' songwriters who set sail in the sixties and seventies whose output is impenetrable to me to the point I'd happily see the whole lot tumble off the edge of a waterfall. It might seem churlish to single anybody specific out for the bumps, but I'm going to anyway:
"I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Won't you look down upon me, Jesus
You've got to help me make a stand
You've just got to see me through another day"
So sang James Taylor in 'Fire And Rain'. In 'Help!', Lennon sings:
"And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before."
In many ways the two songs are blood brothers, there's little to separate them on the surface but I find Taylor's solemn self pity in no way endearing. Any catharsis through presenting these lyrics is Taylor's own and not shared by anyone listening, making it music as therapy and no less self indulgent because of it - Mr Taylor has his fans, but I'm not counted amongst their legion. Lennon's lyric by comparison is remarkably direct, almost a one side transcript of a late night conversation with The Samaritans - you could imagine the same being spoken as prose by a character in a play, which is how Lennon saw himself in 1965 when his meteoric rise to fame came with the downside of a life no longer his own.
It's easy to see what The Damned saw in this - that explosive opening shout of "Help!" (if ever a songtitle deserved it's exclamation mark it's this one!) is the starting gun for another sub-three minute power pop romp of typical Beatles bites and hooks which is exactly what their own 'New Rose' was, only this time the lyric is sharply first person personal. Every line of 'Help!' contains an 'I', 'me' or 'my' though there's none of the 'look at me, look at me' posturing of Taylor and his ilk; Lennon does not wallow in his lyric and his vocal is more angry than resigned - he is looking for sympathy from neither Jesus nor us the listener.
True, a less speedy, acoustic run at it al la 'Yesterday' would have emphasised this far better by pushing it out front, and Lennon is on record as wishing they'd recorded it at a slower pace, but I'm honestly glad that they didn't - Tina Turner does as much on her 1984 version but as a cursory listen attests, the lack of juxtaposition between lyric and music turns that cry into a whine which in turn because less appealing with every round of chorus; Lennon's take is not so nakedly needy as to be pleading "Help me if you can I'm feeling down" the way Turner does.
Rather, we are meant to take the time to break through that whipcrack of a tune to hear the honest vulnerability of song as autobiography beneath and to see beyond the grinning clown's face Lennon was expected to show the world on TV, stage and film (the actual film 'Help!' was a load of hokum about secret cults and missing jewels) night after night to the tears below. Fortunately, Lennon makes the task an easy one with a directness worthy of Occam's razor and a non specific, everyman appeal/acknowledgement of personal weakness that punk and soul singer alike could take on board - there's no mystery as to why the song has endured.
I've always regarded Bob Dylan as a perennial unseen guest at The Byrds table, a non member member who they'd turn to for a song whenever their own inspiration was low. 'Mr Tambourine Man' is a hugely truncated version of Dylan's four verse ode to freedom that had originally appeared on 'Bringing It All Back Home' that same year, though The Byrds gutted it by using only the second verse but filling out Dylan's barren acoustic vision with an electrified shimmer of chiming guitars. In doing so, accepted wisdom states that they single-handedly 'invented' folk rock, though that's not a viewpoint I've too much time for; The Byrds might be the strong trunk at the heart of that genre, but we've heard that Rickenbacker sound before and seeds had already been sown by The Searchers and The Beatles.
What The Byrds DID do,* whether by accident or design, was to tease out the druggy undertones in Dylan's lyric (evidence? just listen to Roger McGuinn's wide eyed/eyes closed reverie on "take me on a trriiiiiip on your magic swirling shhiiiip") and then marry them to a softened and spacey melody that drags slightly out of synch with McGuinn's drawling lead vocal until the two interact with the effect of the swing of a hypnotist's watch. The result is cosmic and sublime, a song that constantly threatens to break free of its earthly moorings and (in the parlance of Milton) "With thy Celestial Song. Up led by thee into the Heav'n of Heav'ns".
As a rule of thumb, I don't care much for cover versions. The exception to that comes where something is done to the song that the original writer didn't/couldn't have contemplated so as to make it something original in its own right rather than just a tracing paper copy. On that front, The Byrds add a dreamy, sun-kissed dimension to Dylan's song of pure lyricism which shaved off the rough edges and managed to sell it to the masses without selling out to them. Stupidly influential, the echoes of 'Mr Tambourine Man' reverberate in spirit around the guitar strings and amps of virtually every jangly indie or alt country act since, with The Byrds themselves never able to fully break free from it's sweet 'ain't broke, don't fix it' template for the rest of their output.
* Of course, the fly in the ointment is that none of The Byrds, apart from McGuinn, actually play on the single at all; producer Terry Melcher wasn't convinced of their musicianship and so hired crack session band The Wrecking Crew to provide the backing. Does this 'spoil' the single at all? I think not - for all intents and purposes the band featured can be regarded as the short-lived The Byrds Mk1, though if you can detect any discernible difference in playing between this and the rest of the songs on their debut album then you've sharper ears than me.
A typical 'beat' single from a typical sixties 'beat' group, 'I'm Alive' was written to order for a band looking for their first number one. It's a lively stomp, but it's structure has always seemed a bit lop sided to these ears; the verses shake the lemonade bottle and build the pressure splendidly ("Now I can breathe, I can see, I can touch, I can feel, I can taste all the sugar sweetness in your kiss") only for the chorus pay-off to splutter like a wet fuse and only partly unscrew the top to let that pressure out.
That's one black mark anyway, but another is the song's central theme of being 'awoken' from a loveless stupor. Fine in theory, but the presentation here has always rung a little too self satisfied and pleased with itself for my tastes. "I used to think I was living, baby I was wrong. No I never knew a thing about living 'til you came along" - it's directness makes it too obvious to warrant stating and the lack of any underwritten subtlety cheapens the analogy until it becomes non existent - would 'Here Comes The Sun' been as effective if Harrison had followed in the next line with 'and now I'm nice and warm'? Of course not.* Luckily, Allan Clarke's vocal is as self conscious as a hyperactive child with a new toy and he injects his cries of 'I'm alive, I'm aaalliivveee' with the enthusiasm of someone crawling from the wreckage after a motorway pile up. It's ham acting for sure, but it's hard to begrudge him his joy and ultimately, it's as hard to begrudge the song as it is that squawking kid. I blame the parents myself.
* A far better example of this kind of thing is Abba's final single 'The Day Before You Came' where Agnetha sets out in painful detail the tedium of her daily life ("I must have left my house at eight, because I always do. My train, I'm certain, left the station just when it was due. I must have read the morning paper going into town" etc etc) and how it's all changed now that 'he' is on the scene. What the song doesn't tell us is whether her life is now a bowl of cherries as a couple, of if all the newcomer has done is exposed her to the painful self awareness that her previous contentment was built on a soulless vacuum.
I have a curious relationship with gospel music. As a committed atheist, the 'message' of the medium shouldn't touch me and yet I can't deny I get a great deal of joy from listening to others celebrate their own faith in song. When it's done well, their own happiness and contentedness rubs off on me and that in itself is a force for the good though ironically, it's through listening to the likes of Clara Ward or Mahalia Jackson that my non-belief is confirmed - if Jackson's version of "In The Upper Room" can't convert me then, frankly, nothing is going to.*
So after all that, why don't I like 'Crying In The Chapel'? Or rather, why don't I like Elvis Presley's version of 'Crying In The Chapel'? I like The Oriole's version well enough (largely for the reasons rehearsed above) so why not a version by a life long God fearing man who's sincerity can't be doubted? Because to elaborate further, it's not that I don't care for this version in particular - I don't have a lot of time for ANY of Elvis's gospel output (and there is a fair bit of it). Whereas in tackling a secular ballad like 'I Just Can't Help Believing' he can reach in and touch my heart, the locks are quickly changed as soon as he starts to get the spirit.
I thought initially that my turn off might be because I grew up on Elvis the rocker mixed with Elvis the balladeer and so a religious Elvis was one face too many. But it's not as simple as that either - after all, I don't have the same problems with, say, Sam Cooke or Aretha Franklin whose secular and devotional recordings manage to inspire me with the same level of delight (often more in Cooke's case). I think at bottom, Elvis's versatility is his downfall. I know he can 'do' sexy and I know he can 'do' rocking, but his success with these genres always short circuits (for me anyway) his attempts at gospel. One of my favourite Mahalia Jackson recordings is her version of 'I'm Going To Live The Life I Sing About In My Song'; "Because I want to do aright
I can't go to church and shout all day Sunday. Go out and get drunk and raise sand all day Monday" It's all or nothing with Mahalia; she loves her Lord and there's no way you'll catch her going all Bessie Smith to holler some innuendo soaked blues belter ("I can't sing one thing and then live another, be saint by day and a devil undercover"), even though she could. Easily.
Similarly, after hearing (and loving) Elvis's Sun and early RCA recordings, I find their raw sexual energy negates the sincerity of his gospel output - if it were otherwise then, following Mahalia's template, for me to give his gospel credence would render him little more than an impersonator on those other recordings in my eyes, and I'm not prepared to give up that much. Which is why it's probably wilful blindness more than anything else that pulls down the shutters whenever Elvis goes to church.
Well that's Elvis and gospel anyway, and by now I seem to have lost sight of the task in hand. Yet after all that, it seems pointless to consider the present number one because you already know I'm not going to have many good words to say about it; written by Artie Glenn for his son Darell to sing (and originally recorded by Elvis in 1960), 'Crying In The Chapel' is an intensely personal, first person song that lays out it's vulnerability in its opening line: "You saw me crying in the chapel".
It's us the listener who 'saw' Elvis in that chapel and the tone of the song suggests 'we' are very much outside looking in, lost souls who'd do well to follow his example so that we'll "know the meaning of contentment" and "be happy with the Lord". This is gospel as evangelism, not celebration and Presley emphasises it to the max. The Oriole's version I namechecked earlier is a more upbeat take where Sonny Til sounds pleasantly self satisfied in his devotion while Elvis simply simpers and sounds far guiltier, almost like he's trying to justify what we've caught him doing - "Now I'm happy in the chapel" if that's true then he doesn't sound it and his case for the defence is somewhat weakened because of it. I've no doubt he's sincere, but 'Crying In The Chapel' is a single that neatly erects a barbed wire fence between myself and any meaningful enjoyment, with my prerequisite lack of faith being the climb proof paint that prevents me clambering over to join Elvis on his side.
* My reasoning here of divorcing a 'secondary' message from the main doesn't apply across the board though. For example, I couldn't listen to a pro-Nazi song without blanching, no matter how pretty or energetic or catchy the wrapping paper might be. I have immense difficulties with 'Tomorrow Belongs To Me', a song I regarded as an inspirational, carpe diem call to arms when I knew it as a Sensational Alex Harvey Band track but which hit me like a slap in the face when I first saw it in context (via Bob Fosse's film version of 'Cabaret') being sung by blonde haired Hitler youth. Even though it's meant to be ironic, it allowed evil to seep in where none previously existed.
From the opening bars it's evident that 'Long Live Love' shares chromosomes with 'It's Not Unusual'; both were written by Chris Andrews and Sandie was in fact given first dibs on the latter song but offered it to Tom after hearing his original demo. 'Long Live Love' is the less hyperactive of the two and its more muted horn parps emphasise jaunt rather than raunch, making it more akin to the continental Europop output of Francois Hardy or France Gall (which probably explains why Shaw was able to record successful French and German language versions of it). And again it's Sandie's voice that's the star turn here - the song itself is throwaway enough with a curiously downturning anti-climax of a chorus but Sandie's sharp and confident diction carves out every syllable with a razor and carries it over the hurdles with aplomb, in the process adding a sheen of class to ensure that what is in fact one of my least favourite Sandie Shaw singles is never less than listenable.
Many years ago in a pre-internet, pre-compact disc world, I picked up a copy of a double album compilation called 'A Touch Of Class' from a charity shop. I mainly bought it because Side Three had Scott Walker's 'Joanna' on it (Scott's albums were still rare, ruinously expensive and yet to be re-issued at that point), though all four sides were filled with romantic songs by artists on the Philips roster to which the tag 'romantic sophistication' was intended to be applied.*
The cover shot says it all really - soft focus lighting, bottles of Brandy and Advocaat, 'lady' in a posh frock and a 'gent' in a tux with this record no doubt burbling away somewhere in the background as he tried to sweet talk his belle into bed (her bare ring finger clearly shows these weren't a married couple, though that dazed and vacant look on her face looks more the result of a good dose of Rohypnol than being dazzled by his charms - just what did he have in that glass I wonder)?
It's to this world that 'Where Are You Now (My Love)?' aspires (it would have fitted onto this album quite nicely had Jackie been a Phillips artist, but being on Pye made sure this wasn't on the guestlist). Not only that, it also sets it's sights on the more sophisticated end of the pop spectrum too, with the rousing orchestration and backing 'la la la's' giving it the air of a very British take on Bacharach and David.
In it's own mind maybe - Tony Hatch's lyrics clump with the grace of an iron boot lined with lead ("When shadows of evening gently fall, the memory of you I soon recall") which Trent's too plummy by half, cut glass diction brutally exposes. There's none of Hal David's clever punning wordplay here, just the vague notion that wrapping it up in high falutin' language adds the garb of class it dearly wants to drape itself in. Trent is game enough, but she's too Mary Poppins governess prissy to really warm to and the distance she puts between the listener and their emotional involvement is a killer.
'Where Are You Now (My Love)?' is not a song I particularly dislike, but with everyone too keen to show their best sides it's the archetypical plate of mutton dressed as lamb, a gaudy 'Calvin Lauren' or 'Ralph Klein' watch on a market stall with a misleadingly optimistic 'RRP £150' (actual price £5.99) on the box. In other words, a fake facade that leaves me cynical whereas as simple 'cheap watches here' sign would have made for a far more tempting buy.
* Although Record Two, Side One, Track One? - The Hawaii 5-0 Theme as played by The Chaquito Orchestra. What stage in the seduction this would soundtrack I couldn't possibly imagine, but in a neat joining of the dots I only found out today that 'Where Are You Now (My Love)?' was the theme from 'It's Dark Outside', a 1960's British television crime series featuring William Mervyn as Inspector Rose. Who would've thunk it?
The romance of motoring is often portrayed as taking joy from being at the wheel with the open road stretching out in front you. From the highbrow wordplay of Whitman's 'Song Of The Open Road', the Beat travels of Kerouac and Cassady in 'On The Road' to the clowning of Hope and Crosby on various roads to God knows where, the concept has been writ large in American culture since the Iron Horse opened up their vast boundaries - they've got the space for it after all. In Britain not so. I've already briefly mentioned Billy Bragg's piss-taking of the 'Route 66' iconography on 'A13 Trunk Road To The Sea': "It starts down in Wapping, there ain't no stopping. By-pass Barking and straight through Dagenham. Down to Grays Thurrock, and rather near Basildon Pitsea, Thundersley, Hadleigh, Leigh-On-Sea, Chalkwell, Prittlewell, Southend's the end". Yes, the end - we're never far from anywhere in the UK and the romance of the road trip too often descends into a bad tempered nightmare of roadworks and delays.*As for trains, don't get me started.
It's this freedom that 'King Of The Road' celebrates - not motoring per se, but unfettered, shiftless travel by any means at your disposal in order to hop from one situation to the next. Miller's idealised romanticism of an American hobo deftly shaves off any rough edges like cold, hunger and random violence in favour of a happy go lucky life of carefree adventure where lack of roots and responsibility are a positive virtue, and Miller relays the story of his lifestyle choice over a jazzy fingersnap with a wink in his voice that makes it sound almost credible.
From my own childhood diet of American serials like 'Casey Jones' or 'Champion The Wonderhorse' then I can vouch that this post cowboy/pre modern era was often portrayed as a time where blind and forgiving eyes could be turned to such kindly uncle characters who knew "every handout in every town. And every lock that ain't locked when no one's around". To my young eyes it added to the charm and allure of the country as any local vagrants I knew of weren't treated quite so fondly. I suppose today they'd either be burned or kicked to death by kids who'd film it on their phones and stick it on You Tube or else be branded scroungers by the government and then left to starve in the gutter after their benefits were stopped. Which is way I always have a soft spot for 'King Of The Road'. It reminds me of my own childhood innocence where to spend "two hours of pushin' broom" to buy "an eight by twelve four-bit room" were aspiration enough and, as an adult, it still provides the briefest of glimpses through the curtains to a parallel world where the Protestant work ethic and consumerist desire for money and chattels don't rule the roost with quite as much authority.
* For a visual account of the grinding tedium of a very British road trip from London to Bristol, check out Christopher Petit's 1980 film 'Radio On'. The Gumball Rally it ain't.
Well there's plenty to like here. That The Beatles (and in particular Harrison) dabbled with Eastern mysticism and musicianship is well documented, but the short changed guitar chime of 'Ticket To Ride already has a definite sitar-like chime skittering all over McCartney's bass that drones in a mantra anchor for Starr to play behind the beat to before catching up with some glorious drum roll fills; it's almost a bare bones cut of 'Tomorrow Never Knows' a year early. More than that, I can hear the germ of Roger McGuin's jangling Rickenbacker riffs from 'Mr Tambourine Man' AND 'Eight Miles High' in its opening ten seconds, and there's still over three minutes to go ('Ticket To Ride' was the first Beatles single to break the three minute running time - plenty to like indeed).
I'm growing tired of typing it, but there really wasn't anything else in the charts that sounded like this. Strip away the vocals and what's left borders on the avant garde, music that on initial listen you'd struggle to work out just exactly where lyrics could fit amongst the sharp angles of this particular puzzle box (with such innovation all around I'll overlook that that basic ascending melody that ends each verse is a sly crib from Lieber and Stoller's 'Little Egypt'). The only thing about it that sounds 'normal' is the squealing guitar break that heralds a fresh round of verses.
And the lyric too - so far this year we've had Cliff dying the minute his girl leaves, Unit 4+2 boasting their love will last longer than mountains and The Seekers finding tru luv 4 eva etc, but after their everyday statement that love feels 'fine', 'Ticket To Ride' continues the same shoulder shrugging observations in a song where nobody gives much of a toss about anything. "I think I'm gonna be sad, I think it's today. The girl that's driving me mad is going away" - not driven mad to the point of heartbreak by her leaving then, and if John and Paul are non-plussed then the girl herself isn't losing any more sleep either - "She's got a ticket to ride, and she don't care".
It's ambivalent to the point of bloody mindedness, yet it's simplicity offsets the hypnotic weirdness of the music in a way that demands more than a single listen, if only to confirm that you really have just heard what you've heard. 'Ticket To Ride' closes side one of the Beatles' 'Help!' album with a cover of 'Dizzy Miss Lizzy' closing side two. How far more fitting it would be had this order been reversed - the Larry Williams song was where they came from while 'Ticket To Ride' was a direct springboard into 'Rubber Soul' and a series of recordings that would show all-comers exactly what could be achieved in the field of pop with talent and imagination.
Blimey - hands up who'd forgotten about Cliff Richard? It's been a while. In all the excitement of the past two or so years, I know I for one had, even though those short years ago he (and The Shadows) were synonymous with the number one spot. It would be tempting to say, with the rise of the Merseysound/Beatlemania and the burgeoning London scene, that he'd been wiped off the face of popular consciousness as just another teenage fad causality to rank alongside the Guy Mitchell's that were and the Slade's and Adam Ant's to come.
Tempting, but inaccurate; a quick look at the full chart run downs of the sixties and beyond shows that he's always been there or thereabouts; never far away from the top ten anyway, and certainly never far enough to dismiss him as all washed up. But what this research hasn't shown up is whether 'The Minute You're Gone' was a pre-planned attempt to crack that elusive (for Cliff anyway) American market, whether Cliff fancied a change of direction to spring clean his output and broaden his appeal or whether it just happened to be the next song he was given to record. But whatever, 'The Minute You're Gone' finds Cliff temporarily jettisoning The Shadows and hitching himself to a rustic country wagon with backing vocals from The Jordanaires and some obligatory weeping steel guitars.
In the circumstances, I don't know whether to award Cliff kudos for not attempting a country drawl to try and make this more authentic or whether to damn him for phoning in a vocal in that usual sing speak quiver. On balance, I'll plump for the latter - not that having Cliff going all 'Y'all' on us would be any boon, but because 'The Minute You're Gone' has a heartfelt lyric that Cliff manages to deliver with all the personal touch of junk mail addressed to 'The Occupier'. When he sings "The minute you're gone I cry, the minute you're gone I die" I simply don't believe him, and while the rest of the playing is as slick as you like, the overall effect is one of covering a dusty, mouldy wall with a quick coat of gloss to try and freshen it up; it might look fine at a glance, but peer not all that closely and all you'll see is a hack job.
There's a fine tradition in British pop whereby a disparate gang of session musicians cook up a hit in the studio and a band is knocked up specifically to promote it. The early seventies were a particularly fertile period for this with one man hit machine vocalist Tony Burrows fronting up White Plains, Edison Lighthouse, The Pipkins and an early incarnation of The Brotherhood Of Man. Unit 4+2, a band with a revolving door of members, were as good an example of such jerry building as any.
In its marrying of a lyric of apocalyptic destruction with a summery bossa nova rhythm, 'Concrete And Clay' really shouldn't work as well as it does, but there's an uplifting joy in the faith in love that the song celebrates. "But love will never die, because we'll see the mountains tumble before we say goodbye"; such hubris can turn tail and bite hard when things go pear shaped (as many recent number ones have testified), but what the hell - for as long as the song lasts then it's all good and because of that, 'Concrete And Clay' is a very hard song to dislike.
Though it's the Stones' first number one that came with a Jagger/Richard writing credit on the label, 'The Last Time' is more a thrift shop compilation of borrowings than anything truly original. The guitar riff that runs through the song like a click track? That's a variation on the guitar line Pops Staples laid down on 'Freedom's Highway'. The "this may be the last time, I don't know" chorus refrain? That's lifted word perfect from an old spiritual called 'This May Be The Last Time', itself covered to chilling effect by The Staple Singers in 1955.
But there's nothing new in any of this carry on - I could fill volumes with examples of how rock and roll/R&B tracks can be sourced back to traditional, hand me down field songs, folk ballads and religious spirituals. I myself mentioned that Willie Dixon is credited as author of 'Little Red Rooster' but in truth the seeds of the song can be found in various earlier recordings by the likes of Charlie Patton and Memphis Minnie, with no reason to believe that they themselves didn't get them from someplace else. It's the nature of the beast and the Stones were by no means the first or worst offenders.*
Of the song itself, Mick and Keith were clearly using their Staple Singers albums as both prop and inspiration as they started out on their own songwriting career, though they at least had the gumption to exorcise the religion and replace it with a more base 'I may dump you or I may not' slant. Despite this hint of nastiness, 'The Last Time' is a slightly limp clatter that rattles along with no snap or crackle with Jagger in particular shy of the confident drawl displayed on their previous number ones. On the self penned verses anyway - he comes alive on the safer ground of that tried and tested, readymade chorus which is the song's main selling point, but even that is wearing in its repetition.
I'm conscious that in saying 'The Last Time' sounds more like a band warming up and finding their feet rather than anything fully fired that I may be judging it in light of the songs Jagger and Richard would write instead of on it's own merits. I think the best I can say is that had those songs not come, then this would doubtless have made for a fine inclusion on any 'Nuggets' type compilation of the era. But there's nothing here suggestive of a band with legs.
* Although there's a sting in the tail in the form of former Stones business manager Allen Klein successfully suing Verve in 1997 for all royalties from their own 'Bitter Sweet Symphony' because it sampled five notes from an orchestral version of the song cut by The Andrew Oldham Orchestra in 1966. A Jagger/Richard credit was also added to all subsequent versions of the Verve track. Which, if you'll pardon my French, is a bit fucking rich.
A common point of reference or touchstone for Jones throughout the sixties was with 'rival' Elvis Presley. That the Jones boy can sing there's no doubt, but whilst Presley had the innate talent to be able to bend virtually any song to his bidding and cross genres with ease, Tom's problem has always been a complete lack of self awareness of when to put the lid on the camp and rein in his bellow. With everything he's ever given to sing, be it upbeat soul or downbeat ballads, the one constant is always the sweaty enthusiasm he delivers them all; Jones has always been a one shot, all or nothing kind of guy who never holds down a note for a second when he can hold it for ten. When it works, it works well ('Delilah', 'What's New Pussycat', 'Help Yourself' etc), but when it doesn't it's horrid.
Unlike Presley, Jones didn't launch on record from an early 'rock & roll' phase and 'It's Not Unusual' arrives in fully formed Vegas mode with a sequinned horn swing, arms pumping groove that's as brash and showy as a fistful of sovereign rings. But then again, I guess it needed something upfront because no matter how many times I listen to 'It's Not Unusual', I never gain any insight in to just what Jones is on about; "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone. It's not unusual to have fun with anyone. But when I see you hanging about with anyone, it's not unusual to see me cry, oh I wanna' die." Errm, right. Not that this spoils its enjoyment to any extent, but it does reveal 'It's Not Unusual' to be a gaudy bauble hanging on the plastic Christmas tree of Jones' gutsy charisma, making the end product more copycat tat than original class. But maybe I'm the wrong sex to really appreciate.
After the recent spate of number ones that have advocated the more unpredictable side of love, 'I'll Never Find Another You' is very much a re-affirmation of the positive, a 'you were made for me' celebration that harks back to more innocent times. Tom Springfield's song is little more than a standard exercise in tunesmith and rhyme ("There is always someone, for each of us they say. And you'll be my someone, for ever and a day") but it's the four part harmonies of The Seekers that apply the gold plating, not least Judith Durham's everclear vocal that cuts through the schmaltz like a shard of glass - a typical performance from a woman who can lend weight to any old rubbish just by opening her mouth. Not that 'I'll Never Find Another You' is any old rubbish - a trifle sugary perhaps, but in context it provides the charts with just the right amount of sweetening rather than pouring a jug full of lactulose over it.
A change of pace from The Kinks (they followed up 'You Really Got Me' with the carbon copy freneticism of 'All Day And All Of The Night'), 'Tired Of Waiting For You' always puts me in mind of that novelty poster/t.shirt/badge etc of a supermodel type in her underwear with the slogan 'No matter how hot she looks, somebody somewhere is sick of all her shit'.* Seems apt really for a song whereby Ray Davies has gone from being so 'got' by a girl that he "can't sleep at night" to feeling "so tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for you". Whether it's the same girl or not we're not told, but the boredom of routine and overfamiliarity in a romance will be familiar to most.
There's a wistful, half awakeness about it all as Ray idly wonders whether it really is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all ("I was a lonely soul, I had nobody till I met you") and he's laid back enough about it all to put the ball into her court with a "It's your life and you can do what you want, do what you like" - just stop pissing me about. 'Tired Of Waiting For You' is not a work of substance and what there is repeats endlessly, but the economy of writing and performance matches the song's lazy, overarching ennui to a fault. Davies always did mild regret and a longing for yesterdays very well, and if 'Tired Of Waiting For You' isn't a song from out of his top drawer then it's a springboard of confidence in his art that would shortly lead to others that most definitely would be.
* I did consider saying that it put me in mind of Prince Don Fabrizio Salina's quote from di Lampedusa's novel 'Il gattopardo/The Leopard" - "Yes, love, of course! Fire and flames for a year, ashes for thirty. I too know what love is". But that wouldn't have given me an excuse to post a picture of a supermodel type in her underwear.
Back in the eighties, Castrol ran a long running advert on British television to promote their oil in which, to the suitably sombre sounds of Mahler's Seventh, they announced that such were the myriad uses of their 'liquid engineering' product that 'oil was too small a word for it'. 'You've Lost That Loving Feelin'' has overtones of that same notion, because although the song reigned resplendent as the most popular selling single in January 1965, 'pop' is too small a word for the widescreen hurricane of emotion that blows up within its grooves.
Actually, I don't need to consider the song in the round to justify this - there's a moment at 1:26 where the brothers* cry "baby, something beauitful's dying" in a way that slays me every time. More wailing than singing, the words sound like they're being beaten out of them, and in the context of the song they probably are - another love affair has gone sour and a person is drifting away while the other can only stand by and watch.
They don't start off spilling their guts; initially anyway the Brothers try to keep their dignity with a level of resigned observation on the opening "You never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips", sung in a conversational tone to a sheepish, hangdog beat that hints that a good chat to clear the air will sort things out. But having opened the can of worms, it's clear as the song progresses that reconciliation is not an option, leading to the repeated accusation of the title before Medley and Hatfield break ranks from their harmonising to trade call and responses ("I need your love/I need your love", suggesting they're both vying for the attention of the same girl) before falling onto their knees as one in a pleading "Bring back that loving feeling" as it fades into an ominous silence that the girl fills not with her answer but the empty sound of her walking away.
Of course, such lyrical drama requires an appropriate setting to contain it and one is duly provided by a Phil Spector 'wall of sound' production that gives 'You've Lost That Loving Feelin'' the density of tropical air. Loud isn't everything though and sometimes it's nothing - even the biggest wall will topple over in a breeze if the cement doesn't bind the bricks properly and Spector is wise enough to lead the listener by the hand instead of bludgeoning them over the head from the off, building to his crescendo from an almost plodding opening to an apocalypse of anguish to match the increased desperation of the vocals as the four horseman take the Brother's loving feeling away.
Pop music for gown ups or grown up music for the kids? It's both and neither; 'You've Lost That Loving Feelin'' is a monolith of a song, but the whole is very much greater than the sum of it's parts; Spector, Mann and Weill may have written it, the Righteous Brothers may have sung it and Spector may have produced it, but it's the end product of the single itself that's the true star rather than any individual component outshining another. Look no further than Cilla Black's version sitting at number two to hear how horrible the results are when the elements aren't in balance, and the fact that this is the seed that spawned the power ballad further shows what can go wrong when you're lazy with the ingredients and produce vinegar instead of wine. 'You've Lost That Loving Feelin'' is never lazy, and games would now have to be raised if anyone wanted to compete.
* Just to clarify, Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield weren't brothers at all, but their twin vocals were always seemingly telepathically linked to compliment each other to the extent that it's pointless to try and separate them out individually. I couldn't anyway.
Another cover version, this time of a song written by Larry Banks for his former wife Bessie to sing; 'Go Now' plays as a sawn off re-write of Bacharach and David's 'Make It Easy On Yourself' - it's the spurned lover trying to salvage some dignity by trying to put a relationship gone wrong to sleep on their own terms. The former is a majestic piece of songwriting to be sure, but the problem with 'Go Now' is that apart from the recurring "If you gotta go" build up lead to the release of the title/chorus, there isn't a lot else going on to hold it together.
To spin this straw into gold requires filling a lot of empty space and Banks did it with a soulful vocal and respectful arrangement that relied more on mood and gravitas than what was coming out of her mouth. In comparison, The Moody Blues put all their eggs into that chorus basket to try let a pop sensibility carry the weight. Does it work? Only partly I'm afraid - Denny Laine plays a strong hand on lead vocal, but whenever he's not climbing that staircase to the chorus (which is often), then the song shuffles around like a bad actor forgetting his lines, waiting for a prompt from the wings as a barrelhouse piano hammers out a far too busy backing melody to hide his blushes.
Perhaps I'm being a little harsh here, but in truth 'Go Now' isn't a song I much care for regardless of who's singing. It's a one trick pony that relies on an awful lot of goodwill from the listener to make it work and frankly, it's a level of involvement I'm not prepared to give it. The Moody Blues try to redress this by emphasising it at it's catchiest, but in so doing it only serves to further lay bare the wasteland that surrounds. I'll pass thanks.
Following the Rolling Stones and their taking the number one spot with a blues number, Georgie Fame flips the coin to bring a jazz swing to the masses with his version of 'Yeh Yeh'. Though originally an instrumental tune recorded with a good time Latin vibe by Mongo Santamaria in 1963, Fame's version has a definite hint of the Soho jazz scene about it's groove, of goateed hipsters fingersnapping their approval to Charles Mingus in a London coffee house straight out of 'Absolute Beginners' (either the film or the book, take your pick). Fame is sufficiently steeped in that scene to make it convince and 'Yeh Yeh' fair motors along with a rootsy panache that's at least the equal of Santamaria's, but while the Blue Flames blow up a quiet storm, it's with Fame's own vocal that follows the original horn riff that the wheels come off.
The vocalese lyrics supplied by Jon Hendricks are awkward and stuffy: "Well every evening when all my day's work is through, I call my baby, and I ask her what shall we do. I mention movies, but she don't seem to dig that, and then she asks me, why don't I visit her flat" - it takes a sly tongue to make that mouthful fit the metre and Fame's Lancashire dialect fumbles where it should flow until his delivery renders 'Yeh Yeh' like an early Wright Brothers prototype that bumps across the ground without ever getting fully and properly airborne - Matt Bianco made a far better fist of it on their 1985 version. Fame is better on the "We gotta do that! We gotta do that! Yeh, yeh. We gotta do that! We gotta do that" refrains where he almost scats, but it's not enough and for the most part 'Yeh Yeh' is a little too smug and too knowing for it's own good, a song playing to its audience like an in-joke that only a clique will appreciate.
As a music fan born some years after this single was released, I count myself fortunate in having some inkling as to what it must have been like as a music buyer in this sixties period we now find ourselves. In a glorious few years straddling the mid to late eighties, personally favoured acts like The Smiths, Cocteau Twins, New Order etc all hit a purple patch whereby they invariably seemed to be releasing new material on a weekly basis with their respective labels happy to promote the product. There was nothing precious about anything they were doing, no three year gaps between albums that were then strip mined white for singles; if they had a song then it was released as a single, if they had three or four then it was an E.P. and when they had an album, one was duly released. It all seems another world now. Maybe it was.
