Showing posts with label dion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dion. Show all posts

Saturday, February 16, 2019

The Shelly Awards

(Trophies Always Have To Be Supremely Ugly)

There was a time when I watched award shows religiously. I'm not sure why ~ perhaps to confirm that my favorites had the proper cachet and to bitch about the wrong choices the so-called judges made. Of course, that was long before I understood that awards are bought and paid for and perpetually political (I actually prefer the naive me.) 

I generally was lost with the Oscars, since I'd managed to see approximately one of the nominated films, and the flick I caught never won anything. The Grammys were kind of a high-brow joke (even to the naive me) because inevitably the winners would be the industry-coronated choices (as opposed to anything any sane person would actually listen to.) "The Girl From Ipanema" beat out "I Want To Hold Your Hand" for record of the year; and you know how often we hum the melody of "Girl From Ipanema".

The Emmys were more my speed because I definitely knew how to watch TV and I was familiar with most of the nominees. The CMA Awards, however, was my show of choice. I did know my country music and frankly, my taste was eminently superior to most. Plus I was a Country Music Association member and thus got to pencil in my choices on the paper ballot. 

I like to flip on the TV at night before bedtime because the hypnotic rays tend to lull me to sleep, so I tuned into the first five minutes of the Grammys last Sunday night. I will admit, I was confused. Some gal was inhabiting different rooms of a home and brushing her hair and bouncing on the bed with a stuffed bunny; and then someone I thought was Justin Timberlake (who I later learned was Ricky Martin ~ I wasn't wearing my glasses) joined her in the number and someone I was supposed to know played the trumpet. And then some other guy piped in. 

Nevertheless I kept watching. The evening's host, Alicia Keys, soon showed up with four gals, only one of whom I recognized (granted, Jennifer Lopez was hidden behind a humongous broad-brimmed hat). The one I knew was Michelle Obama, and I thought, okay ~ she's a music icon. I did see Dolly Parton in the audience; the only person I actually recognized. And then I flipped the TV off.

So I can now say I watched the 2019 Grammys.

I've now decided to create my own awards, The Shellys. The categories are completely capricious, based on whatever the hell I feel like bestowing.

Thus:

Best Roots Recording

Nominees:

Buddy Holly ~ Rave On
Jerry Lee Lewis ~ Breathless
Eddie Cochran ~ Summertime Blues
Chuck Berry ~ Roll Over Beethoven
The Everly Brothers ~ Bye Bye Love


The Winner:



Best Rock Song From the Year I Graduated High School:

Nominees:
Drift Away ~ Dobie Gray
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ~ Elton John
Stuck In The Middle With You ~ Stealers Wheel
Loves Me Like A Rock ~ Paul Simon
Reelin' In The Years ~ Steely Dan

The Winner:


Best Song My Big Brother Told Me I Should Like:

 Nominees:

The Rain, The Park, and Other Things ~ Cowsills
Rainy Day Woman #12 and 35 ~ Bob Dylan
Another Saturday Night ~ Sam Cooke
Telstar ~ The Tornados
Where Have All The Flowers Gone ~ Johnny Rivers

And the award goes to:



 Best Beatles Song:

The Nominees:

I'm Only Sleeping
You Won't See Me
You're Gonna Lose That Girl
Good Day Sunshine 
We Can Work It Out

There is no live video to be found of the winner. However, the first runner-up (Ringo) will accept the award (I have a sneaking suspicion all the Beatles videos have been removed from YouTube. Thanks. Paul.):



Best Hit From 1965:

Nominees:

California Girls ~ The Beach Boys
I Can't Help Myself ~ The Four Tops
Ticket To Ride ~ The Beatles
Baby, The Rain Must Fall ~ Glenn Yarbrough
My Girl ~ The Temptations

The winner (not even close):


Best Music Video of the '80's:

Nominees:

Raspberry Beret ~ Prince
Take On Me ~ a-ha
Sledgehammer ~ Peter Gabriel
Money For Nothing ~ Dire Straits
Nothing Compares 2U  ~ Sinead O'Connor

The Shelly goes to:





My Favorite '80's Act:

Hall and Oates
Huey Lewis and The News
Prince
Phil Collins
Elton John

This was so close:



Best Upbeat Song:

Walkin' On Sunshine ~ Katrina and The Waves
Morning Train ~ Sheena Easton
Happy Together ~ The Turtles
Beautiful Day ~ U2
I Wanna Dance With Somebody ~ Whitney Houston

Of course, the winner is this:


Song That Scared The Crap Out Of Me (or at least befuddled me) As A Kid:
  
They're Coming To Take Me Away ~ Napoleon XIV
Fire ~ The Crazy World of Arthur Brown
Running Bear ~ Johnny Preston
Last Kiss ~ J Frank Wilson
Devil Or Angel ~ Bobby Vee 

Hands down:


Best Dion and The Belmonts Song:

The Wanderer
Ruby Baby
I Wonder Why
Lovers Who Wander
Runaround Sue

Again, a tight competition, but Dion DiMucci doesn't care, because he's a winner, regardless:



Best Hair Band:

Van Halen
Bon Jovi
Whitesnake
Guns 'n Roses
Def Leppard

I'm not a big fan of hair, except for:


Cheesiest '70's Song:
Loving You ~ Minnie Riperton
Billy, Don't Be A Hero ~ Bo Donaldson and The Heywoods
Seasons In The Sun ~  Terry Jacks
Muskrat Love ~ The Captain and Tenille
Havin' My Baby ~ Paul Anka
You Light Up My Life ~ Debby Boone
Afternoon Delight ~ Starland Vocal Band 

Yes, there are seven nominees, because it's impossible to narrow this category down to five.

This one wins only because I can't bear to post any of the others:



Hey, look at the time! Well, the show has run far over its designated time, so tune in again next year for more Shelly Awards!

And all you forgotten acts, you're welcome! It's time you got your due!






 







 


Friday, September 21, 2018

Mundane '62


In 1962 all everybody cared about was space. Not me, mind you. I know everyone was supposed to be in awe of space travel, but all I knew was that the "astronaut" zipped through the sky in a "capsule", of which my only frame of reference was an Excedrin my mom took for a headache. When I was still in first grade that winter, my teacher wheeled a portable TV into our classroom so we could watch John Glenn do whatever he was doing. I was more fascinated by the diorama of songbirds Mrs. Fisher had built in a back corner of the room.

I wasn't completely disinterested in space. I did like this:


My interests were simple at age seven-going-on-eight. I got a sparkly paint set for Christmas and I liked dabbing it into my coloring book--sapphires and emeralds and rubies. I loved my phonograph. I had paper dolls-- cardboard cutouts of (generally) girls or sometimes someone older, like Patty Duke, for which one would cut outfits out of the book and drape them on the cardboard figure with little paper tabs that folded across the model's shoulders and hips. 

I liked TV. I never gave a second thought to the fact all the actors on television were black and white, whereas the real world bloomed with color. I would watch anything, which included my mom's soap operas. I learned that doctors led really melodramatic lives; at least Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey did. Matt Dillon was a sheriff of few words; Alfred Hitchcock was a fat scary man. Ed Sullivan had a lot of really crappy acts on his show, even a guy who talked with his hand and one whose claim to fame was spinning plates in the air. Lawrence Welk was woefully out of date, but my dad liked him. Game shows were a staple of prime time--they required you to "guess" something--what someone's job was or which one, out of three gamesters, was actually telling the truth. I lay on my stomach right in front of our big TV and absorbed every single thing that flashed on the screen. My favorite shows, by far, were Dick Van Dyke and The Andy Griffith Show.

In the fall, when I entered second grade, I transferred to Valley Elementary, which was a brand-spanking new school. I would spend four and a half years at Valley; years that would shape me into a semblance of a human person. Valley was where I would write and perform a play at the Hootenanny. Valley was where I would be chosen by my teacher to become part of the safety patrol, an awesomely responsible post in which I got to carry an official flag. Valley was where I blossomed, albeit temporarily, and learned to embrace my creativity.

In second grade, though, life was terribly mundane. I did worksheets and printed words on rough double-lined paper tablets, when I really preferred to write in cursive, which we weren't allowed to "learn" yet. I was a bit ahead of most of my classmates because my big sister had already taught me how to read and write before I even began kindergarten. However, one was not permitted to outdistance one's peers, so I was bored and fidgety. I did discover the school library, which flowered a whole new world. I devoured Laura Ingalls Wilder books, all eight of them; and then moved on to other biographies. I read every book in the library that was worth reading.

My mom bought me a lunch ticket every month, which the lunch matron punched each time I alighted the line of horizontal aluminum bars and plastic trays. I understand now why I was so skinny. Some people have fond memories of school lunches. Those people are freaks. I dumped more food in the giant trash receptacle than I ever ate. Nothing in the line ever looked appetizing--hamburger mush, gloppy mashed potatoes, possibly accompanied by carrot sticks, which were at least edible. Mini-cartons of milk were the only saving grace. Fridays were always fish sticks, in honor of the Lord. Granted, I was a very picky eater, but "Spanish rice" combined all the ingredients of horror.

The most consequential event of my second grade year was when the school caught on fire. It was a dreary sun-deprived winter day. I don't remember even smelling smoke, but our teacher hastily informed us that the "superintendent" (which was what the head janitor was called) had informed her that fire had broken out somewhere in the vicinity of the furnace room. We were all shepherded out to waiting buses (single file, of course), and a gaggle of teachers alighted the open bus doors and dumped cardboard boxes of rubber snow boots onto the slippery stairs, from which we confusedly tried to snatch a matching pair. I arrived home with two red boots, one of them two sizes too large for my feet. I guess I was lucky to escape the (supposedly) roaring blaze, but I was mostly upset that I couldn't gracefully clomp through snowbanks wearing one jumbo boot.

Apparently the school was grievously damaged, because my class ended up attending class in the hallway of a neighboring elementary building for two very long weeks, with kids who belonged there staring derisively at us as they made their way to the lavatory.

In music, my tastes were influenced by my big sisters -- actually one big sister. My oldest sister was mercurial. She flitted in and out of the house like a sprite, mostly unseen. She was eighteen after all, and soon to march down the aisle. My sisters shared a record collection, however -- all '45's. My brother had yet to blow my mind with actual reams of astounding LP's. So I lived in a world of little vinyl discs. And unlike my brother, my sister didn't care if I played her collection. Her tastes, however, leaned heavily toward Elvis Presley, who I always wanted to like, but for the life of me just couldn't.



I think my favorite record my sister owned in 1962 was this, and I don't quite remember why:


One of the few times I remember my oldest sister being around, she and Rosemary did a little demo on our kitchen linoleum in front of Mom and me of this dance; and Mom, by the way, was mightily impressed (although in reality, it's a pretty easy dance, and I don't know why they called him "chubby"):


But, as the early sixties could do, popular music often devolved into syrup. I don't know anything about Bobby Vinton, except that he recorded the cheesiest songs this side of Bobby Goldsboro. But, hey, it worked for him. Bobby Vinton was an early-sixties phenomenon, with recordings like this:


One artist Rosemary liked a lot that I could get on board with was Dion. She had good taste.


My sisters shared an album that was, I think, one of two long-playing records they owned (I wonder how they divided their record collection once Carole was married). It's sort of funny in hindsight that this was considered pop music, when in actuality it foreshadowed my immersion into country, but, truly, it was pop in 1962:


This was neither pop nor country nor anything other than, I guess, Broadway, but Gene Pitney was a sensation in 1962. And rightfully so:


Every era produces timeless artists (so they say). My sister can claim these as hers:



The truth is, we and radio were a bit behind the times. So the hits of 1962 were probably not on any of our radar until '63. Not that it matters. My family owned a circular cardboard ice cream container of 45-RPM records, some of which I have no doubt my parents picked up at rummage sales, and we played them all on a scratchy phonograph.

It wasn't so much a year as a feeling. A reminiscence of soot and red rubber snow boots and twisting in the kitchen. 
 
Music was always there.

Thursday, September 13, 2018

In Honor of My Sister and Brother-In-Law ~ 1963


My sister and brother-in-law were married on September 12, 1963 ~ fifty-five years ago!

I vaguely remember the day. Mom, Dad, me and I think perhaps my little brother and sister motored to Fort Worth, Texas for the big day. I was eight years old. I don't remember a lot about the ceremony itself, but I do remember that I was left alone that night with (I think) my new brother-in-law's nephew and niece as the adults celebrated the occasion. Kids make friends wherever they find them, and the boy was suitable as a new pal. He and I decided to cook. Neither of us actually knew how to cook (me especially), but in my sister's apartment, we managed to whip up some fried potatoes and something....

In September of 1963 the apparently most awesome of all time president presided over the country. I wasn't into politics at age eight, but I knew who President Kennedy was, because his picture was all over the TV and newspapers.

On TV, little Opie Taylor was a featured character on the Andy Griffith Show, Doctor Richard Kimble was searching for the one-armed man. Laura Petrie was sobbing, "Oh, Rob!". Patty and her cousin Cathy Lane were switching identities and causing all manner of madcap confusion. Ray Walston (the future Mister Hand) was a martian.

A loaf of bread cost twenty-two cents. Gas cost twenty-nine cents a gallon. Something called "zip codes" were introduced. Gordo Cooper launched into space from Cape Canaveral. In England a new band became popular ~ four so-called "mop tops" that we in the US were completely oblivious to.

The top hits of 1963:


This new group ~ The Beach Boys ~ had no compunction about ripping off Chuck Berry, and it worked for them, so hey! (until the inevitable lawsuits were filed).

Skeeter Davis (the only person I am aware of who was named after a mosquito) had the number two hit of 1963. Recitations were a big thing during that era, and were in actuality quite cheesy, but tastes change...




Speaking of lawsuits, the Chiffons had the number four song of 1963, which George Harrison felt obliged to steal. It's not like there weren't a million songs waiting to be written. But apparently stealing was another pop culture touchstone of that year:



A group called The Cascades had a huge hit that year, which essentially sums up music for me in 1963. You can have your Beach Boys and your Chiffons, but this is what top-forty radio was actually like then:


And don't forget this:


My sister always liked Dion, and I can't blame her. I love Dion and the Belmonts:


Ray Stevens did it better, but this was the original:


Any era's music can be ridiculed. That's part of the fun of looking back on music. The fact is, though, every year has at least one gem. 

This is 1963's jewel:



Happy 55th anniversary, Ronnie and Rosie. Dang, that's a long happy marriage!

Friday, July 27, 2018

There's No Such Thing As "Good Musical Taste"


Those who claim to have good musical taste are, frankly, delusional. Who decides what good musical taste is? Music is exquisitely subjective. That's the beauty of it.

Generally, people who drape the "good taste" sash across their shoulder are either obnoxious snobs or audiophiles more interested in showing off their expensive audio gear than their actual record collection. We've all met them. They either want to "explain" music to us or drag us into their den, drop the needle on an obscure Brian Eno LP and stare into our faces, searching for a rapturous reaction.

My dad loved any music sung in a foreign language. He didn't understand the words, but it didn't matter. He particularly loved Spanish, because it sounded "pretty" (which it does, by the way).

I'm a sucker for falsetto. Essentially any song in which the singer slides into falsetto voice hooks me every time. I have no clue why; it just does.

My husband is actually one person who does have good musical taste, by which I mean, yes, I like a lot of the songs he's introduced me to. My sister is another. But I think they have good musical taste because I agree with their choices. That doesn't mean they and I are right. Because there is no "right".

I don't always agree with my husband's opinions, however, He claims that good music died in the seventies. I love eighties pop. Looovvve eighties pop, Casio keyboards and all. He reveres Bob Dylan. And while I agree that Dylan is a singular American poet, most of his songs are not good.

If you really listen to the lyrics of this song, he's just throwing words together. No, there is no deeper meaning that we peasants just don't "get". And even if, according to Bob, there is some deeper meaning, I don't want my music to be a study program. 


I, on the other hand, like this:


Too, I maintain that music is a reflection of memory. Or memories. The life we were experiencing when a particular song was popular is almost as important as the song itself. My sons hear Beatles songs objectively. I feel Beatles songs in my gut. They were my life. 

Objectively, this is not that great of a song. Subjectively? It was everything:


I can't even try to explain how everything changed in '64, because those who didn't live it will never understand. It's as if there was sort-of music before; then suddenly actual music exploded the planet. 

I guess you had to be there.

The snobs will tell you that "Yesterday" is the greatest Beatles song. No Beatles fan will ever tell you that. The Beatles weren't about ballads. They were about splitting the earth wide open. 

Music, though, is not all conscious memory. I love Glenn Miller, whose band recordings were barely a ping on the radar when my parents became married. 


And I love rockabilly, which was my older sisters' music. 


I love doo-wop. Even I'm not old enough to recall the doo-wop heyday.


In some regard, music must be cellular. Sometimes there is no conscious memory; there is only a "feeling". 

So, Mozart? Okay. I can climb on board. That doesn't mean Mozart lovers have better musical taste than Hall and Oates aficionados. Maybe musical snobs are simply closed-minded.

Me? Well, you can see for yourself. 

That, that, is the glory of music.














Saturday, January 20, 2018

A Year Lost To Time -- 1962

(all cars looked like this)

My sisters could tell you more about 1962 than I am able to. It's not that I wasn't around -- I was -- I was seven, which is an age when one is barely conscious of the world around them. I was confused, trying to feel my way in the vast universe that primarily consisted of my school bus, home, and Valley Elementary School. 

In second grade my school caught on fire. That was something different. It was mid-winter, and all of us kids were stuffed into waiting buses, and then the teachers exited the school carrying boxes of snow boots and pressed them into our confused hands. I went home with one boot that fit and another red rubber boot that was two sizes too big. I don't recall being traumatized. Little kids tend to accept whatever happens to pop up. I had to go to a different school while mine was being rehabilitated. There were only three elementary schools in my town -- Riverside, Valley, and Crestwood. My class got bused to Crestwood, where my teacher commenced to instruct us in the hallway. Again, I was not unnerved by having to squat on the hard linoleum floor for six hours a day as the regular Crestwood kids stomped past on their way to the lunch room and stared at us. 

This went on for approximately six-to-twelve weeks, and then we returned to Valley, which looked brand-spankin'-fine, like a blazing inferno had never engulfed the furnace room. I tend to think everyone over-reacted. I had a boyfriend, who I liked but didn't like, Jon Bush, and I got mixed up the day we moved back to Valley, and pushed him away. I thought my teacher had only wanted me to correct one classmate's paper, but she had meant for me to correct everybody's. She got mad when she saw me give Jon a shove and she reprimanded me sternly. Last time in my life I ever shoved anyone. 

The big event in my seven-year-old life was Valentine's Day. We crafted our Valentine receptacles out of shoe boxes; decorated them with bric-a-brac from Mom's sewing box and festooned them with red Crayola hearts. Everybody had to give everybody a valentine. There was no quibbling. Mom chose the valentine pack based upon the number of students in my class. It was a difficult decision, however, determining which valentine to bestow upon whom. If a girl was a good friend, I gave her the prettiest sparkly heart. For Jon, I didn't really want to lead him on, but I did need to distinguish him from the other boys in my class. The sentiments printed on the cards contained subtle differences. For example, "You've Roped My Heart Podner" was far more meaningful than "Hi Cookie!" Choosing the appropriate valentine for each person in my class was a very serious undertaking. In retrospect, perhaps I placed too much significance on the process.

On Valentine's Day, when I got home with my shoe box stuffed full of hand-printed hearts, I perched on the top of the stairs and sorted and categorized my cards and created little songs to accompany them as I danced them about. I was a bit too invested in Valentine's Day.

That, in a nutshell, is my memory of 1962.

Music was haphazard. Granted, music was filtered through my sisters' tastes. My oldest sister was kind of flighty -- one could never pin her down as far as what she truly liked. My second oldest sister was damn moody. I didn't dare ask her what music she preferred, or anything, really; because she might just fly off the handle. I was her mangy mutt -- someone she was forced to tolerate, but really a giant pain in the ass.

I'm guessing my sisters didn't really like this song, but it was a giant hit. This is because radio in 1962 wasn't radio as we know it today (if anyone actually listens to radio today). Singles weren't slotted into crisp categories. There wasn't rock ('n roll) and country (western) and easy listening. The DJ played them all! And mixed them up! Right after Jay and the Americans came Frank Sinatra! Yes, disc jockeys didn't just stab a button and up came a whole pre-fab playlist. DJ's actually played real records and they picked them out themselves. They also gauged local hits by how many call-in requests they received -- yes. Ahh, so antiquated.

Anyway, this single, I'm guessing, was for the "old folks", because we all listened to the same radio station (in my case, KRAD), be we seven or seventy-seven.


Much like this:


Yes, there was a common thread running through the old folks' songs. Lots of violins and a rhythm that was sort of a "slow gait". Connie Francis was a mega-star in 1962. I remember playing at my cousin's house when one of those "be the first caller to guess this singer" blurbs came on the radio. My aunt hollered to my cousin, "Connie Francis!" and my cousin dialed the radio station's number. "Is it Connie Francis?" she asked. "You're our winner!" My cousin won the black MGM single and all she had to do was have her mom drive her to the station to pick it up. I played that game, too, except all the songs I knew were records I already owned, and I did my own guessing without my mom's help. I often ended up with double copies of the same '45, but it was the notoriety that counted. 

To be frank, there were only two renowned female singers in '62 -- Connie Francis and Brenda Lee -- so there was a fifty-fifty chance my cousin aunt would get it right. Sadly, I can find no live performance videos of this song (Connie is shy):



You can see why I had such a laissez-faire attitude toward music. Well, toward everything, really, but that's kind of a seven-year-old thing.

There were a few more rockin' hits in 1962; songs that my sisters much preferred. Face it, it was a new world. JFK was president and he was young. Ike probably liked Nat King Cole, but it was time to rocket into the second half of the twentieth century. Sputnik was being launched into space, whatever Sputnik was, and John Glenn had climbed inside a "capsule" and putted across the sky.

Yep, this was more like it:


Dang it, I loved this song in '62. I danced and sang in front of the upstairs bedroom mirror to it. It had a nonsense intro and harmony and a good beat (you could dance to it). What's not to love for a little kid?


In 1962 "twisting" was of supreme importance. My sisters did a masterful rendition of the dance in our kitchen one winter evening, to the family's delight and consternation. I've featured Chubby Checker's version here too many times, so here is a variation:


The "peppermint" twist was what all the cool cats did, especially in New York. You know, people like Truman Capote and Lee Radziwell. And their martinis.

The twist was by far not the only dance craze of the time. No. There was any stupid dance that any dunce could do, even if just by accident. The twist was really good exercise, but if one was tired, they could always do the mashed potato, which essentially involved simply contorting one's feet in and out. The remainder of the body could rest. Hey, I'm not a snob when it comes to dances. My generation had the jerk, which was ordinary arm exertion, as opposed to foot movement, but the result was the same. One could be their regular lazy self and still "dance".



Believe it or not, this single hit number five on the charts. You may think this is a tired old saw; the song that pops up every time a movie scene demands it, but there was a time when this was new. Of course, at seven I didn't know what a "stripper" was. My big brother knew. You gotta admit, it had a good beat.


Aside from the kitsch, music was beginning to show signs of what was to come. 


There was this new group that not many people paid attention to. They wore matching plaid shirts. So hokey. I don't know whatever happened to them. Maybe I should do a Google search.


I'm including this simply because it's good:



Gene Pitney was a rock star in the days before there was such a thing as rock stars. I suspect he probably really wanted to be on Broadway, but nevertheless. This guy could sing. And he had the look -- the early sixties Anthony Perkins look.



Yea, goofball was around. Sorry, I mean Elvis Presley. My sisters liked him a lot. I almost wish I liked him, but I'm not sure why. In '62 I frankly thought Ricky Nelson was better. Aside from being a caricature, it struck me that Elvis tried too hard.


My sisters had this album. I wonder if they remember. It seems, in my recollection, that my two sisters shared singles and albums. I'm averse to that. I think music should be the possession of one person. The reason I like this song is because it foreshadowed the direction my life would go, musically. It's not rock (or rock 'n roll). It's country. They called it rock 'n roll in 1962. It wasn't:



To sum up, at age seven I was confused, befuddled. I had the beginning of an inkling of what music was -- good music and bad music. Music wasn't the sum of my existence then. 

It soon would be.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Pioneers Of Rock - The Early '60's

I don't think it's right to just stop with the late '50's, do you? Not when there was so much good music yet to come. I already did a whole series on the British Invasion bands, but there was actually a whole gaggle of good artists from the good old USA!

The early-to-mid '60's were good years for rock 'n roll music. There were a lot of different styles, from doo-wop to the precursors of rock & roll (singers such as Connie Francis), to the California surf sound of the Beach Boys, to the wall of sound stuff by that unsurpassed weirdo named Phil Spector, to the Jersey sound of The Four Seasons, and on to the pop stylings of producer Quincy Jones, then on to the Motown Sound, and everything in between.

One thing you can say about that era ~~ everything didn't sound the same.

So, I'm just going to throw some videos in here, with little thought to rhyme or reason, and see what you think.

CHUBBY CHECKER - THE TWIST



This song was from 1960. Interestingly, the song also hit the Top Ten again in 1962. It makes one wonder if there was a dearth of songs back then, so they had to recycle the old ones. I don't know. Anyway, this appears to be from an appearance on American Bandstand (note the lip-syncing). Plus, there is NO WAY he could dance and not lose his breath if he was actually singing. I mean, really. This song marked a new phase in dance music. Prior to The Twist, everyone was just fox-trotting around and jitter-bugging. With the advent of The Twist, people could dance all by themselves! I think we can credit this song with creating the ME generation. Who needs a dance partner? Again, also, as in Fats Domino's case, why do they call him "Chubby"? He doesn't look very chubby. I'd call him "Average Checker".

JOEY DEE & THE STARLITERS - THE PEPPERMINT TWIST


Well, what hath Chubby Checker wrought? What started as simply "The Twist" in 1960 morphed into the Peppermint Twist in 1962. I'm no historian, but I'm thinking Joey Dee was a real hipster dude who was the toast of discotheques all the way from Brooklyn to the Bronx. This version, The Peppermint Twist, is the New York take on the now classic dance number. I am loathe to point this out, but Joey is actually doing a combination of The Twist/The Mashed Potato, so he is by no means pure in Twist parlance.




DEE DEE SHARP - MASHED POTATO TIME


I don't want to be nitpicky here, but some of the dancers were doing The Jerk, NOT the Mashed Potato. I guess they thought no one would notice. Although, David St. Hubbins WAS doing the Mashed Potato, so good work, St. Hubbins! I wonder whatever happened to Dee Dee. I wonder if she's still wearing that giant brooch in her "hair" (wig). I don't know how exactly I ended up being focused on dance crazes, but I promise it will end soon.


THE CHIFFONS - HE'S SO FINE

Okay, I couldn't actually find a performance of "He's So Fine" by The Chiffons, so I substituted this one. It's the same song ~~ just ask the US Copyright Office. Only the words were changed. This is nothin' against George Harrison, but good god, man, didn't this melody ring a bell when you were writing it? Just add in some "do lang, do lang's" and you got it. Still a great melody, though. A classic, if you will. I think we should ALL write lyrics to this melody. Pay it forward, as they say.


THE SHIRELLES - WILL YOU LOVE ME TOMORROW

Unfortunately, in addition to this great performance, we are subjected to pop references from 1961. Frankly, the ones that resonate with me are Rocky & Bullwinkle and Mister Ed. Sorry, JFK. Sorry, President Reagan. I guess Bullwinkle and Mister Ed hold a higher place of honor in the history of the USA. I don't make the news; I just report it.

FRANKIE VALLI & THE FOUR SEASONS - BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY


1962; I'm thinkin' the Ed Sullivan Show. You think? You know, falsetto is kind of a lost art. One rarely sees that anymore. A pity. Cuz, if you think about it, it could get you ON BROADWAY! And you'd have a hit show, and you could just kick back and collect residuals. Not bad for a little falsetto. Not bad at all.

DION & THE BELMONTS - RUBY BABY

Bad video; great song. I still love this one, from 1962. Dion and his Belmonts did a great job incorporating doo-wop with rock & roll. This is but one example. Dion, of course, went on to a solo career, singing about Abraham, Martin, & John. This was in the late '60's, when people actually cared about that stuff. Oh, the times, they have a'changed.

GENE PITNEY - TOWN WITHOUT PITY


DISCLAIMER: THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS. It's from 1961. The net tells me that Gene himself wrote this song. If so, KUDOS, Gene! I don't know if I trust that info, though. It sure sounds like a Burt Bacharach song to me, but I could be mistaken. A little known fact: Gene was the first pop singer to perform at the Oscars. I really kinda miss Gene Pitney. I really liked him. Not to ruin the moment, but in this video, he really reminds me of Anthony Perkins, of "Psycho" fame.

CONNIE FRANCIS - EVERYBODY'S SOMEBODY'S FOOL


For those who don't know, Connie Francis was HUGE in the late '50's/early '60's. And she's a good singer who deserved her fame. I'll always remember Connie especially from that classic tearjerker, "Where The Boys Are". Have you ever seen this movie? It's a camp classic. First of all, you can't beat a cast that includes George Hamilton, Dolores Hart, Jim Hutton, Paula Prentiss, Frank Gorshin (what?), Yvette Mimieux, and, of course, Connie herself. It's about these "kids" (who look approximately 35 to 40 years old) who go to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. Well, all kinds of bad things happen: love is found, love is lost, love is found again, George Hamilton gets a tan. I understand that in real life, Dolores Hart went on to become a nun, to atone for actually getting paid for starring in movies such as "Where The Boys Are".

BRENDA LEE - FOOL #1


The gals were really popular in the very early '60's. Brenda Lee is another great singer. I really like her. She has a big voice for someone so very, very, very tiny. I'm guessing she's about 8 years old here. Okay, maybe not. But she's about 3 feet tall. Not that there's anything wrong with that. One nitpick I have about this video: she is lip-syncing the song. That's the only quibble I have, however. I think she's great, and the song is great.

RICK(Y) NELSON - TRAVELIN' MAN


He started out as "Ricky", and later became just "Rick". But that's really beside the point. This is widely credited as being the very first music video. It tells the tale of Rick(y) traveling all over the place - apparently to Mexico, then to Alaska, then to Hawaii, and on to parts unknown. The incredible part is that he (apparently) did all this traveling by BOAT. Wow, Rick(y) must have had a lot of free time on his hands. But I guess air travel was kind of pricey in 1961.


THE DRIFTERS - SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE MOVIES


I picked this one from the Drifters, because I like this song, and I haven't heard it in ages. Sorry about the Karaoke titles - but hey, feel free to sing along! The Drifters had many hits in their day. Also sorry for the lip-syncing. There are not a lot of good Drifters videos out there. Again, I hate to even point out things like this, but man, their choreography BLOWS! I've seen my dog do better footwork than this. But they still had great songs.

THE TOKENS - THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT

Okay, here's the deal ~ I know this is not the "classic" black & white video, but I have to admit it ~ I never knew these guys were WHITE. Seriously. I never knew this. As I reel from the shock, I do want to say that I don't appreciate Disney & Company appropriating this song. The song was NOT done by animated lions; it was done by real people. And stop stealing our nostalgia.

We'll close out this segment with a GREAT rock song from 1961, one of my all-time favorites:

DEL SHANNON - RUNAWAY


This is a classic song. And is that a wicked organ solo or what? Somewhere, some dude is sitting around telling his grandkids that he played the organ solo on that record. And they're saying, "Yea, whatever, Grandpa". Kids are rude. As a side note, on this video, did you note that all the "running/dancing" girls had the same hairstyle? I'll let you in on a little secret ~ that was NOT their real hair. We had something back then we called "falls". They were clumps of fake hair that you pinned to your head to make you look like you had long hair. And they were made of the cheapest synthetic crap ever. You wouldn't want to try to brush it out. It would be a nightmare. Thus, you just pinned that crappy plastic hair to your head that had been sitting around on your nightstand for a fortnight. And off you'd go, off to run/dance to the latest songs on the hit parade.



More to come. MUCH more to come.