Merry Christmas, My Friend!

If I mention the band The Royal Guardsmen, what’s the first song that pops into your head? Well, okay, maybe it would be the second song to pop into your head, but, still, my guess is one of the first two would be Snoopy’s Christmas (see player below), recorded in 1967 on the Laurie record label – the same label, by the way, which brought us hits by the likes of Dion and the Belmonts, The Chiffons, and – make sure you’re sitting down – yes, that’s right, Bobby Goldsboro!

The song, Snoopy’s Christmas, was a follow up to the group’s debut hit, Snoopy vs. the Red Baron (which might have been the first song to pop into your head!), and, like its predecessor, Snoopy’s Christmas tells the story of a WWI air battle between everybody’s favorite beagle, Snoopy, and his old nemesis, the Red Baron – who for some reason is now used to promote frozen pizza!

Anyway, unlike the first tune, this song has a seasonally appropriate happy ending when, after being inspired by the sound of Christmas bells from the town below, the Red Baron adopts a spirit of peace, calls a halt to the fighting, and offers Snoopy a holiday truce – and perhaps a slice of pizza, as well! The song’s chorus rings forth with seasonal words of hope and goodwill:

Christmas bells, oh Christmas bells, ringing through the land
Bringing peace to all the world and goodwill to man.

As a kid, I owned both The Royal Guardsmen’s hit singles. (You did, too, right?) And, as a drummer, I remember thinking that the march-like drum cadence used on both songs was pretty cool – a rhythmic style, which (for some unknown reason) wouldn’t make it back into pop music until 1974 with the Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods’ hit Billy, Don’t be a Hero! But we can discuss the merits of that song another time…

Merry Christmas!

Shannon is gone...

Back in the spring of 1976 I started collecting 45 rpm records. I had this great idea that if I started my collection by going out and buying the current top ten singles, and then each week purchased just the new additions to the top ten, in several years (for just a few dollars each week, mind you!) I’d amass an amazing record collection of top pop hits. Well, that plan – great as it was – lasted about a year before I sort of lost interest in the project. (Can you say ADHD?)  Cool idea, though, eh?

Now, almost 35 years later, I’m sad to say I have absolutely no idea what became of that collection, which included classics like Vicki Sue Robinson’s Turn the Beat Around, Gary Wright’s Dream Weaver, and Dr. Hook’s A Little Bit More. (Remember the lyrics to that song? “When you think I’ve loved you all I can – I’m gonna love you a little bit more.” Nice.)

Anyway, one of the more interesting records to hit the charts that year was a song called Shannon (see player below), written and performed by singer-songwriter Henry Gross – and a pretty good tune actually, although, along with tunes like Gilbert O’Sullivan’s Alone Again, Naturally and Eric Carmen’s All By Myself, it is highly ranked on my list of The Most Depressing Songs of the 70s!

Gross says he was inspired to write the song after hearing that a friend’s pet dog had been hit by a car and killed. (The friend was Carl Wilson of the Beach Boys, btw.) The dog’s name was Shannon, which coincidentally was also the name of Gross’s dog. So moved by the coincidence was Gross, that he sat down with his guitar and in minutes wrote the song Shannon, a soft, rock ballad lamenting the passing of a cherished pet, who the singer heard  was “drifting out to sea.” Nice thought.

Now I have to admit that back in 1976, when I first heard the song, it kind of creeped me out, because at the time I didn’t know it was about a dog – I thought it was about the singer’s little sister! (How was I supposed to know?) You can imagine just how horrified I was every time I heard  the lyrics

Shannon is gone. I heard she’s drifting out to sea.

She always loved to swim away.

Maybe she’ll find an island with a shady tree,

Just like the one in our back yard.

What a relief to find out, albeit years later, that the song was really about a dog. Still sad, but not quite so creepy!

Who's Ron Dante?

Back in 1969 when I was in the seventh grade, the song Tracy by The Cufflinks topped out at number 10 on the Billboard charts. The song was a one-hit wonder – a fluffy, bouncy, bubble-gummy kind of tune that really isn't worth remembering.

But I remember it well because, at the time, one of my best friends had a crush on a classmate named Tracy. And I (good friend that I was) took every opportunity to chastise him by singing at the top of my lungs the words to the song every time we passed in the hallway at school.

Tracy, when I'm with you, somethin' you do bounces me off the ceiling.

Tracy, day after day, when you're this way, I get a lovin' feelin'.

Yes, that’s right, tough guy that I was, I harassed him by singing at him! – which, to be honest, is about as close as I ever came to anything even remotely resembling bullying behavior. Shocking, but true!

Ron Dante

Now, as far as the song is concerned, the truth of the matter is that the band, The Cufflinks, never really existed – not as an actual band, anyway. The song featured the vocal work of a session singer named Ron Dante, who multi-tracked his own voice for both the lead and background vocals, while being backed instrumentally by a handful of studio musicians. And, as if that’s not exciting enough (I really do need to get a life!), what’s really cool is that back in the spring of 1969, not only did Ron Dante have a top ten hit with the song Tracy, but, at the same time, was also responsible for all the vocals on the song currently at the top of the charts, Sugar, Sugar, by the Archies – yet another group that didn’t really exist!

I think that’s pretty cool: two concurrent top ten songs, credited to two different bands, neither of which really existed, sung by the same singer who, by the way, didn’t get any credit on either recording. I’m not sure, but I think that’s got to be some sort of record! (Nice play on words!)

To his credit, as a studio singer Dante sang on hundreds of records and commercial jingles, and was an equally prolific record producer, working with the likes of Barry Manilow, Cher and John Denver. Way to go, Ron!

Gotta Love Weird Al Yankovic

My daughters recently had me watch on YouTube an accordion parody of Ke$ha’s Tik Tok, after which I felt compelled (out of my own need to show them how cool I am!) to share with them a video version of Weird Al Yankovic’s My Bologna. (See player below.) The song – a parody of the Knack’s My Sharona – was one of Weird Al’s early fores into the pop song parody world, of which he has, of course, become king. My daughters enjoyed it, by the way, and were particularly intrigued (translation: embarrassed) when I told them that in my mid-20s, I bore an uncanny resemblance to Weird Al. (I really did!)

Listening to My Bologna brought back memories of Sunday evenings during my sophomore year in college, when my roommate and I had a standing date with The Dr. Demento Show, a nationally syndicated radio program, broadcast locally in Philadelphia on WYSP. Although he wasn’t really a doctor (and, in fact, Demento was not his real name – surprise, surprise! – it was actually Barret Eugene Hanson), Demento was an authority on obscure and novel songs, which were featured weekly on his show.

One of Dr. Demento's claims to fame is that he can be credited with discovering Weird Al Yankovic, who in the mid-seventies began sending Demento home-made tapes of his song parodies, which at that time featured Weird Al singing the lead vocal while accompanying himself on the accordion. The result was an amazingly lame, but absolutely hilarious, song parody style, a prime example of which can be heard on Yankovic’s My Bologna, produced in 1979.

For the next 30 years, Weird Al produced numerous song parodies/videos, including hits like Eat It, Another One Rides the Bus and Amish Paradise, all of which are impeccably produced, and single out Weird Al as the master of his genre.

Of course, as good as Weird Al is, I still have a warm spot in my heart for the music of an earlier song parodist, Allan Sherman (Hello Mudda, Hello Fadduh). I grew up listening to his record albums, and to this day can sing by heart the words to many of his songs. But more on Allan Sherman another time…. Do you remember him?

Lookin' Out My Back Door

One of my great regrets in life is never seeing Creedence Clearwater Revival live in concert. I absolutely loved their music when I was growing up, and, in fact, the song Green River was one of the first 45s I ever bought. John Fogerty’s one-of-a-kind voice, his signature guitar sound, and his talent as a producer – well, it all made for some great records!

Without a doubt, my favorite CCR album was Cosmo’s Factory. And, as a teenager, I spent hours not only listening to the music, but also staring at album cover, which, for some reason, really captured my attention. It was so random: John Fogerty seated on a motorcycle; drummer Doug Clifford perched atop a ten-speed bike; bassist Stu Cook and guitarist Tom Fogerty just sort of lazily lounging around. I remember thinking at the time, “If this is what rock and roll musicians do when they’re just hanging out – then sign me up!” (The the title of the album, by the way, refers to the Berkeley, CA, warehouse where the band rehearsed, nicknamed “The Factory” by drummer Doug Clifford, a.k.a. Cosmo. Yeah, that’s right. Cosmo. Just like Seinfeld’s Kramer!)

In the band I played with in high school, not only did we do a cover of the quintessential CCR hit, Proud Mary (along with every other band in the world!), but we also did a version of Lookin’ Out My Back Door – a great tune with some pretty off-the-wall lyrics!  Of course, not having the vocal range of John Fogerty, I had to pretty much squeak out, best I could, the song’s lofty refrain: Doo, doo, doo, lookin' out my back door. I got it, though. Although, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t do that now!

On a side note, Fogerty recently donated his “slugger” guitar (a guitar that’s shaped like a baseball bat) to the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Cooperstown, NY, performing during the induction ceremonies his baseball classic, Centerfield, one of my all time favorite tunes…

Air Supply? You've Got to be Kidding!

I have a friend who recently shared with me that she really likes the music of Air Supply. “What?” I exclaimed! “Air Supply? Are you kidding? How could you possibly like Air Supply?” She went on to say that she knows by heart all the words to their songs, has her iPod loaded with almost every tune they ever recorded, and absolutely is a dyed-in-the-wool fan. I looked at her with just one thought on my mind: Unbelievable! (Not really, I just like giving her a hard time!)

Australian-based Air Supply was a veritable giant in the soft rock business back in the early 80s, producing such classics as All Out of Love, Lost in Love, and Two Less Lonely People in the World. The group’s signature sound was a result of the collaboration between songwriter Graham Russell and lead singer Russell Hitchcock, who met in the mid-70s while performing in a production of Jesus Christ Superstar.

Back in the early 80s, when Air Supply came on the music scene, I was working at a small hardware store in Wilmington, Delaware, where all day long we listened to an adult contemporary radio station. And no exaggeration, I bet that station played an Air Supply song about once every hour – placing them high in the rotation with other soft rock superstars of the day like Barry Manilow, Lionel Richie and Kenny Rogers. Boy, those were the days!

I remember the first time I heard the Air Supply song, The One That You Love, and wondering if the lead vocal was sung by a man or a woman. (Check out the player below.) The voice sounded so high – at least for a man! Now granted, there have been plenty of males in the pop music industry with high voices – running the gamut from Neil Sedaka and Wayne Newton, to Steve Perry and Vince Gill – but something about Hitchcock’s voice seemed different to me. So much so, that I wrote a song parody, which included the following lines:

Here I am, the one that you love, waiting for my voice to change.
Understand, the one that you love, sings in a woman’s vocal range!

These days Russell and Hitchcock can be seen in a 30-minute infomercial, pitching a soft rock CD set for Time-Life. You know, they both look pretty good – unlike oldies icon Bobby Goldsboro (Honey, Watching Scotty Grow), who I also saw not long ago in an infomercial for Time-Life, wearing, without a doubt, the worst hairpiece I’ve ever seen in my life! But more on that another time….

What do you think? Am I being too hard on these guys?

Tommy James and the Hanky Panky

I remember being a young boy at summer camp in 1966 when the Tommy James and the Shondells’ song, My Baby Does the Hanky Panky, was a huge hit. I owned a little black AM transistor radio that I carried around with me most of the day, listening to a local top 40 station that seemed to play the song at least once an hour, along with other pop hits of the day like Little Red Riding Hood and Sweet Pea. Being just nine years old at the time, I thought the phrase “hanky panky” referred to a dance – you know, sort of like the hokey pokey. I was so naïve!

I do recall, however, just how much I liked the song – its overall twangy-ness, the steady, rocking rhythm of the instruments, the slightly out-of-tune background vocals, the crappy guitar solo – it was all good! I just never gave any real thought to the underlying meaning of the words, that’s all. Still, it was a pretty good tune.

Several years later, when I was in the sixth grade, some friends of mine and I formed a band to perform at a school talent show, and we chose to play another Tommy James’ hit, Crimson and Clover – yet another song the meaning of which completely eluded my still young and naïve brain! How good we all must have looked wearing our bellbottom pants, polyester shirts and matching neck scarves. Sort of a Greg Brady thing, I guess.

The coolest thing about doing the song, Crimson and Clover, was that in order to get the warbly effect for the vocal at the end of the song, we had to borrow from a friend a guitar amplifier that had a tremolo unit built in. (Actually, it was a small, internal fan placed in front of the speaker.) By attaching a microphone to the amp, we were able to copy perfectly the sound on the record: Crim-im-im-im-son-on-on-and-clo-oh-oh-oh-ver-er-er-er… O-oh-oh-oh-ver-er-an-and-o-oh-oh-oh-ver-er-er-er! The only difference was that our singer sang the song an octave higher than Tommy James! Sort of a Peter Brady thing – but hey, we were just 12 years old…

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, Baby!

When it comes to drum solos in rock music, few are more memorable than the one offered up by Ron Bushy on Iron Butterfly’s 1968 classic, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. (Check out the player below.) The 17-minute long song (which basically repeats the same two-bar riff over and over again) was a “must play” at parties and school dances in the late 60s and early 70s, and featured a long, extended solo for Bushy, one of the first of its kind on a rock album.

According to legend (which is sort of like rumor, only with a little more credibility), the title of the song, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, originally was supposed to be In a Garden of Eden, but, during the recording of the song, the group’s somewhat inebriated keyboardist and singer, Doug Ingle, mumbled his way through the lyrics so that they came out sounding to Bushy like “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” The band actually liked that name better, and so it stuck. Another version of the story suggests that it wasn’t Ingle, but Bushy who was intoxicated, and, unable to hear the lyrics correctly, named the song according to the words he thought he had heard. (Of course, I guess it’s just slightly possible that both men were intoxicated – although what would the likelihood of that be!) Either way, it’s makes for a pretty good story.

During my high school years I played drums in a local rock band, and In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida was one our favorite songs to play at school dances and coffee houses, giving me a chance to show off a little bit – something that drummers seldom do, being that we are such shy and modest people, avoiding the limelight at all costs. (Seriously, most drummers I know have egos the size of Texas, and love to draw attention to themselves, which is one of the reasons why we’re willing to drag all of that equipment around!)

Back in 1969 I was fortune enough to hear Iron Butterfly live in concert at the Spectrum in Philadelphia, about 30 minutes from where I grew up. I remember well Bushy’s drum solo, which was loud and impressive, and must have lasted a good half an hour! I also remember the smoke at that concert being so thick you couldn’t even see the other side of the arena. Remember those days? I guess it was cigarette smoke, but now that I think about it…

Go Cat, Go!

Whatever happened to Cat Stevens? Do you remember him? You know, the British folk rock star of the early 70s who brought us two really great albums, Tea for the Tillerman (Wild World, Where Do the Children Play, Father and Son), and Teaser and the Firecat (Morning Has Broken, Moodshadow, Peace Train). Whatever happened to him?

Well, as you might know, in the late 70s Stevens converted to Islam, and, as part of the process of becoming Muslim, changed his name from Cat Stevens to Yusuf Islam. (I guess only changing his name halfway, to something like Cat Islam, wouldn’t have quite done the trick! Oh, well…) In order to focus fully on his faith and pursue peaceful and philanthropic causes, Stevens also gave up his music career for the next 30 years, before finally returning in 2006. His choice – and nothing wrong with that. But, still, I have to wonder where his career might have gone had he not taken such a long hiatus.

I’ve always liked Stevens' music, and back in the early 70s I remember thinking what a cool sounding name “Cat” was, and wishing that I could be nicknamed “Cat.” But, alas, the name had already been taken. (As a child I did briefly go by the nickname “Bones,” but that’s a story for another time!)

Rumor has it that Stevens chose the stage name “Cat” because he thought his real name, Steven Demitre Georgiou, wouldn’t sell very many albums. And he was probably right! Still, the name “Cat “did sell millions of records – it’s just too bad he didn’t stay with his music career long enough for it to become one of those one-word superstar names – you know, like Madonna, or Sting, or Bono, or Lulu. (Come on – don’t tell me you don’t know who she is!)

As a teenager I really enjoyed Cat Stevens' songs, and spent hours leaning to play them on the guitar. I especially remember how much effort it took to stretch my pinky way out so I could reach the high notes on the guitar intro to Moonshadow. I got it, though! My personal favorite, however, was the song Father and Son, which required singing the first verse (the father’s part) in one octave, and then jumping up an octave to sing the second verse (the son’s part) – contrasting beautifully the maturity of the father with the innocence of the son. How cool is that? Of course, I had to play the song in just the right key so I could do both the low and the high parts without straining my voice too much! (Key of G works best, by the way.)

Cat Stevens' most recent album, Roadsinger, was released in 2009. Go Cat, go!

King Tut – Funky Tut!

So I’m driving into work this morning with my music cranked up, when on the radio comes Steve Martin’s King Tut. And in my mind I’m immediately transported back to Spring break 1979, when some friends of mine and I drove non-stop for approximately 23 hours in a 1976 Datson station wagon to Fort Lauderdale so we could share seven days of sun, sand, and nighttime wildness with 100,000 other crazed college students. (For some reason I have absolutely no desire ever to do that again – although I did have a pretty good time!)

Anyway, to pass the time as we drove, we listened over and over again to a cassette tape (Remember those?) of Steve Martin’s 1978 album, Wild and Crazy Guy, which featured some of his now classic comedy bits like Cat Handcuffs, You Naive Americans, and, of course, the title track, Wild and Crazy Guy.

I can’t even begin to count the number of times we listened to that tape (the whole album’s just 39 minutes long, so you do the math!), all of us in unison, voicing out loud lines like, “I've gotta get a pair of cat handcuffs, and I've gotta get 'em right away!” And (with a French accent, please!), “You Americans are so naive; you have so many naive ways. For instance, in my country, when you break up with a woman, you simply say, ‘I break with thee, I break with thee, I break with thee.' And then you throw dog poop on her shoes!"

Without question, one of the best cuts on the album was the novelty song, King Tut, which rose to #17 on the Billboard charts in 1978. Now, whenever the song comes on the radio (as it did this morning), I can’t help but sing along, belting out in full voice great lines like, “Now if I’d known they’d line up just to see him, I’d have taken all my money and bought me a museum!” An interesting side note: the backup band on the recording – identified as the Toot Uncommons – is actually the Nitty Gritty Dirt band, with whom Martin had previously appeared as an opening act.

Over the past 40 years Steve Martin has enjoyed success as a comedian, actor, musician and writer, and he is truly a multi-talented individual. Still, my best memories go back to his early albums, his wild and crazy routines, and the wonderful way he made me and my friends laugh.

A Hundred Pounds of Clay? Really?

I always enjoy the opportunity to combine my love of music with my interest in theology – not necessarily an easy task, or one that fascinates many people, but, nonetheless, one that kinda works for me. I especially enjoy taking a look at some of the “bad theology” expressed in popular songs down through the years.

I have to say, in general, popular music does a pretty poor job at offering up theologically sound lyrics. And maybe that should come as no surprise to me, but it does seem there is a fairly large number of popular songs that have (Oh, how shall I put this nicely?) missed the theological boat somewhat – prime examples being Joan Osborne’s What If God Was One of Us? and Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky, two songs that at first seem pretty much okay, until you start thinking about the words a little bit.

Without a doubt, however, the chief offender of all time is Gene McDaniels’ 1961 hit, A Hundred Pounds of Clay. (If you’ve never heard this song before, or even if you have, check out the player below.) And not to give McDaniels too hard a time, but having studied the Bible a little bit, I consider myself fairly well versed in the scriptures, and even I can’t begin to figure out where McDaniels came up with this stuff. The writer of the book of Genesis, for instance, does offer up the image of a man being being made from the dust of the ground, and a woman being made from his rib, but as far as there being any reference to forming the first woman out of a hundred pounds of clay – sorry, can’t find it! Nor is there any image of God “rolling his big sleeves up” so he could get to work making a brand new world – as if God was some brawny Paul Bunyan type, schlogging his way around an otherwise uninhabited planet looking for something to do!

These criticisms aside, there is a much bigger problem I have with the song: it’s the suggestion that God, in some moment of great divine wisdom, decided the only thing missing from the life of this poor, solitary schmuck roaming aimlessly around in the middle of nowhere – the first human being to walk the earth, mind you! – is “lots of lovin” from a 100-pound waif-of-a-woman whose sole purpose is to smother him with hugs and kisses! Oh, really? I’d think food or shelter might come first, or a television perhaps. But what do I know?

To be fair, I guess McDaniels’ image is sort of believable, since there wasn’t much else to do at the time, and it would be another few thousand years before Lazy Boy recliners, Budweiser beer, and major league sports would be invented! But still, come on! Furthermore – and correct me if I’m wrong – it strikes me that the song, as a whole, is just a tad bit condescending toward women. But hey, go figure!

Give the song a listen and let me know what you think!

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

I’m known among my friends for having rather eclectic musical tastes – equally happy with Beethoven or Buffett, Springsteen or Sinatra, Green Day or GaGa – it doesn't really matter. In fact, as I’m writing this post, I’m listening to the classic cowboy stylings of Riders In the Sky, yodeling in my mind, and wishing I were wearing fuzzy chaps and a ten gallon hat. (Oops, did I say that out loud?)

Anyway, from an early age I’ve always enjoyed music of all kinds, which has never really posed a problem for me, but has, at times, tended to baffle and confuse my family and friends – not the least of whom was my college roommate on the day I waltzed into our dorm room (figure of speech only) carrying a copy of Freddy Fender’s latest album, Before the Next Teardrop Falls.

“What are you doing with that?” he asked, grabbing his books and hurriedly exiting our room, knowing full well I would have Freddy’s voice crooning from the stereo within seconds. “It’s got a great tune on it,” I replied. “It’s called Wasted Days and Wasted Nights. You’ve got to hear it!” But before the words were fully out of my mouth, he was already far down the hallway, having learned early on in our college career that he and I didn’t always share similar tastes in music. Oh well, his loss!

It’s hard for me now to recall just what it was about that song, Wasted Days and Wasted Nights, I liked so much. It had enjoyed pretty good airplay on top 40 and country stations at the time, getting up as high as #8 on the Billboard Hot 100 charts. But there must have been something that compelled me to go out and buy the album: the twangy guitar, maybe; the lamenting vocal; Freddy’s forlorn look on the album cover – something! I just can’t for the life of me imagine what it was!

I do remember, however, also liking the title track, Before the Next Teardrop Falls. And, in particular, I recall trying my best to sing along in Spanish during the middle verse of the song – the sound of which also sent my roommate running down the hall…

1976: A Great Year in Music

1976 was a great year for pop music. And as a freshman in college, I spent lots of time listening to the radio, the airwaves filled with some of the best music ever to come down the pike – before or since. Of course, my focus and efforts should have been more directed toward my studies – instead of spending time listening to music, partying, and growing the world’s worst mustache – but how was I supposed to know that?

Still, it was a year of great songs (and I mean really great songs!) like The Eagles’ Hotel California, Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way, Stevie Wonder’s I Wish, and Peter Frampton’s Show Me the Way. Of course, the year also brought us a handful of less-than-memorable classics – songs like Leo Sayer’s You Make Me Feel Like Dancing and KC & The Sunshine Band’s Shake Your Booty, but even those songs weren’t all that bad. 

For me, however, one of greatest songs to come out of 1976 was the Boston tune, Smokin’. Even today, I hear that song and I just can’t sit still. If it comes on the radio while I’m driving in the car, it gets totally cranked up until the speakers in my poor little Honda CRV almost blow up! (Okay, perhaps that’s an overstatement – but not by much!) And, as a great car song, it inspires fits of head-bobbing-while-driving better than almost any other song I know. (The obvious exception being the middle section of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. And if you remember the car scene in the movie Wayne’s World, then you know exactly what I’m talking about!)

Not only was the song Smokin’ a classic, and one of my all-time favorites, but Boston’s debut album boasted some other great tunes, as well: More Than a Feeling, Peace of Mind, and Rock and Roll Band – all great songs!

I’m proud to say I still have my original copy of the first Boston album – too bad I don’t have a turntable to play it on!

Gotta Love the Marimba!

Not long ago I posted some thoughts about the use of an ocarina as a solo instrument in pop music. (see 5/05/10: An Ocarina?) I admit the subject might have been a little bit lame to blog about, and so I apologize to anyone who thought I was being a tad harsh at best, or, at worst, terribly boring. (Just for the record, I don’t really think it was that bad of a subject, but hey, I can take a little constructive criticism from time to time.)

So allow me now to write on a more positive note about yet another instrument you don’t hear used much in pop music, at least not as a solo instrument: the marimba. Yes, that’s right – the marimba. (You know, that xylophoney-looking thing with metal tubes protruding down from down under the keys.) The marimba is known for its mellow lower register, and frequently used to create an “island” kind of mood, sounding a little like a muted version of steel drums.

Now, the marimba has been used a few times as a solo instrument in pop music, namely in the Rolling Stones’ Under My Thumb and Elton John’s Island Girl. But, without a doubt, the all-time standout marimba solo appears in the song Moonlight Feels Right (1976) by the Atlanta-based band, Starbuck – a group formed in 1974 by keyboardist and vocalist Bruce Blackman and marimba player Bo Wagner. (Yes, they’re the two guys up and to the right, dressed in those suave and sofisticated outfits, reminding us of why the chic styles of the 70s didn’t last!)

Given the fact that one of the band’s founding members was a marimba player, it’s no wonder that a 16-bar solo works its way into the middle of the song, giving Wagner a chance to show off his mallet chops while wowing his fans with sixteenth note triplets and chromatic scales. (Okay, too technical? Did I mention I was a percussion major for a big part of my college career?)

Anyway, the song made it all the way to #3 on the Billboard charts in 1976, and was the only real hit Starbuck ever had. Maybe the marimba just doesn’t appeal to a wide enough audience… Ya think?

Stairway to Heaven

Few songs generate fonder memories of my early teenage years than Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven, a tune that has been covered by dozens of artists, all the way from Dolly Parton to Mary J. Blige. Written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, and appearing on the album Led Zeppelin IV (1971), the song consistently ranks high among the top rock songs of all time.

Back in the fall of 1971 I was in the ninth grade, and from the first time I heard Stairway to Heaven, I remember immediately liking the song – its soft, arpeggiated acoustic guitar intro, its mystical and enchanting lyrics, and, most especially, Plant’s screaming vocals at the end.

During my high school years the song was a staple at parties, coffee houses and school dances. And, I’m pretty sure we did a cover version in the band I played with at the time, along with songs by groups like The Doors, Yes, and Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

But my favorite high school memory surrounding Stairway to Heaven is playing it as an instrumental guitar prelude in church one Sunday with one of my best friends, Doug. Our church (of the large, downtown, Presbyterian variety) must have been fairly liberal for the day – not that there’s anything wrong with that – because members of our youth group regularly played guitars and sang during worship, entertaining the old guard with classics like Blowing in the Wind and One Tin Soldier. I can still recall playing on that particular Sunday, the two of us sitting on the steps that led up to the chancel area, with Doug plucking out the melody and me putting the chords underneath, as the congregation sat in silence and listened, politely intrigued. "Pretty cool," I thought at the time. Still do.

On a related note, a year or two after playing Stairway to Heaven in church, three of my friends and I played a prelude of a different sort, this time offering up a medley of Duke Ellington tunes. You should have seen the three ministers sauntering down the aisle to the strains of Take the "A" Train….

An Ocarina?

Okay, I’ll admit it: back in the mid-1970s I actually owned a Captain & Tennille album. There, I said it. I gladly lay it right out there on the table and own it. Not a problem.

The album was Love Will Keep Us Together, and not only was the title track pretty good, but I also liked some of the other cuts, as well – like the group’s cover version of The Beach Boys’ God Only Knows, and the Bruce Johnston classic, Disney Girls.

The duo released several other albums in the late 70s (I didn’t buy any of those!), and while it’s relatively easy to poke fun at The Captain & Tennille for a myriad of reasons (not the least of which is the hokey nautical captain’s hat worn by Daryl Dragon – alright, I know he was “the captain”), I really must take issue with Dragon’s choice of an ocarina as the solo instrument on one of the group’s more popular songs, Do That to Me One More Time, which appeared on their 1979 album, Make Your Move. I can’t for the life of me figure out what made him choose that instrument over some others. (An ocarina is a flute-type of instrument that looks sort of like a potato with holes in it.)

Daryl Dragon was, after all, one of the early users of the synthesizer in pop music (not that Keith Emerson or Rick Wakeman had anything to worry about), using it in a particularly creative way on the song Muskrat Love. So, why not use a synthesizer for the solo verse in Do That to Me One More Time? (Something other than the sound of two muskrats mating might be nice, however!) Why in the world choose an ocarina? Goodness! An ocarina? The instrument (also known as a “sweet potato” – which should be a pretty good clue as to what a looser instrument it is!) sounds really out-of-place to me, and way “not cool.” How about a guitar? Or a trumpet, even? Almost anything would have been better than the “doot-doot-doot-doot-doot” of an ocarina. I don’t know, as a solo instrument, it just sounds really hokey to me.

Other than that, however, I sort of like the song – even though its title does have a romantic subtlety rivaled only by The Starland Vocal Band’s Afternoon Delight.

You Take My Breath Away!

Remember the name Rex Smith? If you don’t, I’m not surprised. Rex Smith was sort of a teen idol back in the late 70s, having really only one hit song, the romantic ballad You Take My Breath Away, which briefly hit the top ten in 1979. I collected 45 hit singles back then, and I remember Smith’s glossy black and white headshot on the front of the record’s dust cover.

Anyway, I have to admit – although I really don’t want to! – I kind of liked the song when it came out. (I guess I’m just a sucker for a whiny ballad.) These days, however, I can’t for the life of me remember why I liked the song – in fact, when I hear it now (it’s frequently played on the Sirius/XM Jukebox of Cheese) I think, “What a piece of useless fluff! How could I possibly have liked that song?”

Back in 1979, though, I liked the song well enough to actually write an arrangement of it for the wedding band I played in at the time – a band I like to refer to as “Four White Guys in Ruffled Shirts and Cheesy Tuxedoes.” I grimace now when I think about some young newlywed couple taking their spot on the dance floor for that very special first dance, and me seated behind my drum set crooning out lyrics like, “You, you smile and it’s okay; I don’t know what to say; you take my breath away; you take my breath a-waaaaay!” Yikes!

Rex Smith did go on to achieve some success in his career, including a platinum-selling album, Sooner or Later, acting roles on and off Broadway, and guest appearances on TV shows like The Love Boat, Baywatch, and As the World Turns. Clearly, the guy has some talent.

When all is said and done, Rex Smith’s You Take My Breath Away ranks right up there with other schlocky classics of the era, like John Travolta’s Let Her In (1976), Kenny Nolan’s I Like Dreamin’ (1977), and Dr. Hook’s Sharing’ the Night Together (1978) – all of which, at the time, I also thought were pretty good tunes. What was I thinking?

Whistle a Happy Tune!

I don’t hear very much whistling in pop music. I wonder why that is. I guess it has to do with the fact that it’s hard to whistle well, and that there’s a fine line between really good whistling (you know, whistling with a nice tone and just the right amount of vibrato) and really bad whistling (that is, whistling characterized by the combination of a shrill tone and a vibrato you could drive a truck through – a style I not-so-respectfully refer to as “old man” whistling).

When I think back to the music of my youth, two songs featuring someone whistling come to mind: Georgy Girl and Sittin’ On The Dock of the Bay. It also occurs to me that while the whistling used in both these songs helps establish an upbeat and carefree kind of mood, at the same time that mood sits in stark contrast to the overall depressing theme of the songs themselves.

The song Georgy Girl was made popular by The Seekers back in 1962. And even though I was only five years old at the time, I remember hearing it on the radio with its bubbly, bouncy, four-bar whistling introduction and thinking, “Boy, that’s kind of different. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody whistling on a pop tune before! That sounds sort of fun and happy!” But then, despite its cheery introduction, the song goes on to describe a depressed and lonely young girl who lives in a dream world and runs away from reality. The lyrics even urge Georgy “not to be scared of changing,” and to “jump down from the shelf a little bit.” (I have to wonder if it’s ever a good idea to tell a depressed person to go find something to jump off of! Yikes!) Then, to make matters even worse, the words of the last verse encourage her to look for “another Georgy deep down inside” – suggesting that not only is this poor girl depressed, but apparently she also suffers from what’s known clinically as dissociative identity disorder, (a.k.a multiple personalities). Oh well, so much for my happy, cheery, bouncing little song. It’s sort of a downer, actually.

In Otis Redding’s Sittin’ On The Dock of the Bay (1968), the whistling comes at the end of the song – and as the music fades out softly and slowly, the listener can imagine Otis rising from his seat on the dock, and happily and contentedly strolling off down some little road that runs along the bay. And that would be a great image, except for the fact that the lyrics speak of a man who, among other things, feels like “nothing’s gonna come my way,” “has nothing to live for,” suffers from a “loneliness that won’t leave me alone,” and is pathetically prepared to spend the rest of his wretched life “wasting time.” Wow! So much for the image of him happily strolling off into the sunset!

Hey, whatever happened to whistling a happy tune?

Woman Woman!

My mother loved the music of Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, especially the song Woman Woman, which hit the charts in November of 1967. I remember her buying the 45 rpm single, and then playing it repeatedly (and literally ad nauseum!) on our family’s Sylvania stereo system, which enjoyed a place of prominence in our living room. (Stereo record players were still quite a novelty back then!)

As you probably know, Gary Puckett is the artist who brought us at least two other great hits: Young Girl and This Girl is a Woman Now – two songs that go wonderfully hand in hand, and together suggest that while it’s inappropriate for a man to pursue a young girl (as it most certainly is – even if she has led him to believe she’s “old enough to give him love”), once that young girl becomes a woman, well, she’s pretty much fair game for just about any middle-aged pop singer who comes down the pike dressed in a Union civil war uniform with a desire to “change her world.”

Yet, I digress. As I think back on my mother playing that record, Woman Woman, I find myself now, years later, wondering, What was my mom thinking? And, more to the point, just what was there about those lyrics that was so exciting to her? The song is, after all, about a woman who has “cheating on her mind,” and who Puckett describes as having “a certain look when she is on the move.” Did those lyrics express some secret fantasy my mother harbored in her own mind? Could my mother have had cheating on her mind? Yikes! Not my mom! And gosh, could it be I was blind to the fact that she wore some certain look when she was on the move? Eek, I don’t even want to go there!

Of course, it is possible (and, in fact, likely), that maybe my mom just simply liked the song – you know, like it had a good beat and you could dance to it – and that there were no other thoughts on her mind… er…well, you know what I mean.

Thoughts? Comments?

James Brown and Gordon Lightfoot

So, what do James Brown’s Sex Machine and Gordon Lightfoot’s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald have in common? Give up? Not even a guess? Well, they’re absolutely two of the most repetitive, monotonous (not literally, but almost), banal and boring songs I’ve ever heard! I listened to them back-to-back on the radio the other day, and I could hardly stand it.

For starters, Brown’s Sex Machine (or, more accurately, Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine – a much better title, ya think?) uses the same one chord guitar lick over and over again (126 times to be exact!) – taking a break only to insert a 16-bar bridge in the middle of the song, which, frankly, is terribly monotonous, as well. Worse still, are the lyrics, which pretty much consist of Brown repeating ad nauseam the phrase, “Get up… stay on the scene… like a sex machine.” (In true James Brown fashion, of course, this is pronounced Get up-uh! Stay on the scene-uh! Like a sex machine-uh!) Finally, to make matters even worse, the song goes on for over five minutes, causing the monotony to stretch into what seems like an eternity! Argh!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love James Brown – and songs like Hot Pants, Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag and Living in America – all great tunes. In fact, when I was a teenager the song I Feel Good was one of my favorites. (Still is, by the way!) But Sex Machine, well, not so much.

I like Gordon Lightfoot, too, and without a doubt hits like If You Could Read My Mind and Sundown are classics. But I’ve wondered for years why in The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald he had to shove essentially the same eight bars down our throats for six and a half minutes, without at least a little variation. (Okay, there’s a little interlude in there, but that doesn’t count any more than the bridge in Sex Machine!) Maybe instead of concentrating on the music, Lightfoot was focusing all his compositional energies on creating intriguing rhymes like “…when the skies of November turn gloomy” and “...the big lake they call Gitchee Gumee.” That might explain it.

I don’t know… Do you think I’m being too hard on these guys? Leave a comment!