The Summer of 1967

My parents moved us in the gloomy month of December, 1966. Three kids, two of whom were barely toddlers; and me, an awkward, bashful eleven-year-old. Like most things we humans think will be magnificent experiences, reality is a letdown. Initially, in the late summer of '66, when my parents casually informed me we would be moving far away, I was elated. Country life had its virtues, but I'd experienced (tiny) city life by then, and I was sick of being isolated. All I had was my bicycle, after all, and it was a long trek into town on a bike.

In my fanciful notion of a new life, as I twirled down the dirt road on my bike, arms outstretched to the winds, I pictured a quaint town where I would window-shop, drop the kickstand down on the concrete, mosey into a little store and purchase an emerald frock. The shopkeeper would smile benevolently and perhaps pat my hand as I proffered my four dollars.

Reality was a sun-dimmed, dirty snow-pile parking lot and a musty apartment far from any town I could traverse on a bicycle. The motel my parents had laid down their life savings for was nineteen rooms laid out in a semi-circle with a cement speed bump smack-dab in the middle and a three-foot-high American elm holding on for dear life poked up through the concrete. Welcome to upward mobility!

The dank apartment attached to the motel's office had two full bedrooms with one microscopic bathroom between them. Thus, I became ensconced in a bunk-bedded room with two waifs sharing the bottom bed and me on the top. "My" room was so minuscule, I could extend my arms and touch the opposing walls.

I hadn't even met my new school yet and I was miserable. It was winter break, so I had approximately seven days to acclimate to my new home. I hated everything about it. Back in Minnesota, I had my own room (albeit shared with my tiny sister) upstairs, away from everyone, where I could play my records as loudly as I pleased, and nobody bothered me, ever. I had privacy. Now I could hear every snap of the bathroom tap; every time my dad got up in the middle of the night to fetch a drink of water.

I set up my battery-operated record player inside the three-shelf recessed closet in my room, stuffed my (two) albums in the cubbyhole above, and made believe that this was "home".

My best friend's brother had warned me that North Dakota was backward. When I spied my new sixth grade classroom, his words scorched my ears. I showed up in the tall-windowed eighteenth century chamber, settled into my third-desk-from-the-back, cracked open my fat World History textbook and pretended not to notice that everyone in the room was eyeing me. I looked around and didn't see one friendly face. It took a couple of months (which seemed like years) to find one single person who would deign to talk to me.

I desperately wanted to go back home. Sadly, "home" was now occupied by a family of strangers, which was an insult in itself. They'd probably changed things -- ruined my basement Imagine Land by turning it into a carpeted den or something. Replaced the breezy lace curtains in the living room with heavy damask draperies.

I ached to go home right up 'til the day a girl in my new classroom shot me a grin at something ridiculous Mrs. Haas had uttered, and I instantly realized this skinny blonde girl was somebody simpatico. And just like that, I had a best friend.

Life didn't suddenly become sublime -- I hated, hated my apartment (I refused to call it "home"). I hated the claustrophobia of being tightly packed among people I could barely tolerate on good days. I hated that I couldn't take a walk outside without running into complete strangers.

But, even though she lived miles away and traveled a different bus route, my breath was lighter knowing I had a friend -- Alice.

My big brother was an apparition. Some days he was there; some days no one had any idea where he'd gone. He'd ostensibly moved to North Dakota with the rest of us, but he was his own man, at age twenty. There obviously wasn't room for him in our little dormitory, so he got a motel room all his own; exactly what I yearned for, but didn't possess the requisite number of years to claim. Fortunately for me, my brother was gone a lot, and the motel office had passkeys.

I slipped the lock on his door, dropped the phonograph needle on this 45 and exhaled:

I loved The Turtles, to the point that I memorized the number of times Flo (or Eddie) sang, "so happy together" at the end of the song. And no, Ferris Bueller didn't invent this song:

I loved this one even more:

I almost feel sorry for those who weren't yet born in 1967, because they missed songs like this:

...but not really. Maybe I'm not "cool", but I was at least alive (and kicking) when some of the best music of all time burst into being.

My brother was a carpenter and an entrepreneur, and he knew a good gig when it stabbed him in the eye. He hammered together a fireworks stand and perched it on the edge of our new motel property, placed his mail order requisition, and proceeded to rake in the bucks. 

By late June the sun was hot and I was barefoot, scorching my toes on the melting asphalt. My little brother, Jay, and his best pal Royle, pedaled up to the fireworks stand on their bikes and tried to wheedle Rick out of giving them free bottle rockets (he did).

Dad had invested in an outdoor swimming pool to drive new business, so I reveled in this new windfall. I slipped on an orange two-piece, donned my cheap plastic Woolworth sunglasses, tiptoed across the driveway in front of Rick's little kiosk and settled on a chaise lounge beside the turquoise waters, flipped up the volume on my transistor, and heard this:

And meanwhile, Felix sang this:

This song was so sixth grade:

Not to be outdone by Ray Kazmarek's organ riffs, Procol Harem showed they were no slouches. The only quibble I have with this track is that it unnaturally fades. They could have tacked on another 30 seconds or so, because it seems to end weirdly:

Another of my clandestine break and enters featured this song (which was, in fact, the only song by Herman's Hermits I ever actually liked):

Yes, I liked this one a lot. The Grass Roots don't get the acclaim they deserve. Aside from being the first live rock 'n roll concert I ever attended, these guys had scores of hits in the sixties:

The best thing Graham Nash was ever a part of:

God bless you, Neil Diamond -- you're still going strong -- and you had one of my favorite singles of 1967. I still remember that black and yellow BANG! record label:

So, while 1967 personally sucked mostly for me, I can still say that the music was awesome, and I was there.

So life, in essence, is a series of yins and yangs; searing pain and soaring heavens.

We take what we get and try to remember the joys.

It Was Fifty Years Ago Today

I didn't realize until tonight that 1967 was fifty years ago! My, how time flies.

Nineteen sixty-seven was a seminal year for me. We'd moved to our new home (or "house of horrors", as I prefer to call it) in December of 1966. As an almost twelve-year-old, I'd had a naive optimism that life in this new world would be superb. Just like me to act now and think later. Not that I was given a choice in the matter.

I was caught in that shadowy crevice between my old life and my new one. I'd left my very best friend behind, but my tiny mind discarded that reality in favor of the new, exciting life I'd conjured.

My brother was twenty years old and independent. He'd left someone behind, too, but he wasn't about to discard her. Thus, he traversed Interstate 94 about two hundred times that first year, to Minnesota and back, until he could bring his soon-to-be bride back with him permanently.

My brother was granted his very own room along the long back row of motel units; room number twenty, to be exact; while I shared a skinny cubbyhole and a set of bunk beds with my little brother and sister. My big brother was never around (see previous paragraph), so if I wanted (needed) a little me-time, I grabbed a pass key from the office and made myself at home in Room 20. It wasn't exactly like his room back on the farm. He no longer had a cozy nook for his albums; his new music center was a set of dark recessed shelves illuminated by a sixty-watt light bulb, directly adjacent to his bathroom. Nevertheless, I slipped "Pleasant Valley Sunday" on his turntable and performed my own version of the jerk in front of his vanity mirror.

I was careful to leave his room the way I'd found it. I smoothed out the bedspread that I'd sat on in between mirror performances. I placed his records back on the shelf in the exact order in which he'd arranged them. I'd had years of experience with this ritual; it came second nature to me.

Then I slumped back to the "house" and did my best to ignore everyone who lived there.

Adults who relocate to a new space in the world don't even consider the things kids worry about. Moving to a brand new school in a brand new town, I fretted about how lost I would be amidst the subject matter. I'd had a bit of exposure to a new school when I was nine and had moved with my mom to Lisbon, North Dakota for part of the school year. St. Aloysius had been woefully behind. I'd felt like a complete fraud when the nuns proposed to Mom that I skip a grade. I'd always been good at memorizing and that was essentially what made me look so smart to the St. A's sisters -- I'd already committed to memory everything they were teaching.

But, now, would the Mandan school system be far ahead of where I'd left off? What if I flunked and had to repeat the sixth grade? Add to that the reality that I would need to keep my head down and not make eye contact with a bunch of disdainful strangers. I was a jittery wreck.

Mandan was big on world history. A big fat textbook with crisp white pages of stories about the "Slovakias" and a study sheet crammed with foreign words. And science. A subject that made me question why God was punishing me. I'd been so good; had gone to confession every week just like He had decreed; had made up "sins" just to have something to utter to the priest dozing inside his little velvet-lined box. I'd done everything He'd wanted me to do -- ate fish sticks on Friday -- and this was my reward?

There was not one subject Mrs. Haas taught that gave me a sense of relief. My only saving grace was that I could spell. Mrs. Haas was big on spelldowns. Every week she'd line everyone up on opposite sides of the room and challenge them to spell words. I soared. My only real competitor was the other new girl who'd shown up in Mrs. Haas' classroom the same day I did. But I vanquished her, too. Take that, Becky Weeda!

I also had to endure the indignity of taking the city bus home from school. The Mandan School District didn't have bus routes that stretched out to the boondocks. Thus, I had to hike six blocks from the elementary school to the Prince Hotel in downtown Mandan to wait for Mister Paul to pull his big blue and white bus up to the stop to take me home.

Crazy people rode that bus. There was a guy who was always sitting in the front seat -- a guy who had some kind of neck stitch. He would crick his head to the right over and over and over again while he jabbered to Mister Paul. There was a seemingly sophisticated twenty-something girl who boarded the bus every day as I was wending my way home. One afternoon she had donned Jackie O sunglasses, and complained incessantly to Mister Paul that she'd recently suffered "snow blindness". I think all of these people were insane.

I sat in the middle row, far removed from the regular eccentrics. There were, at the most, five of us riding the route, and that included the driver. Mister Paul was always nice to me, though. He had a job to do, and I think he understood that as a twelve-year-old, these freaks freaked me out. I really liked Mister Paul. The following year, as I stumbled into seventh grade, I had an English teacher who was also named Mister Paul. He was a foppish dilettante who I was aghast to learn was the son of my kindly city bus driver.

I felt like I spent my life on a bus.

To my astonishment, somewhere between December and February, I acquired a friend. Mrs. Haas' classroom was a test of my memorizing skills. I couldn't really tell Glenn from Robert. I learned quickly that Russell was a big doofus, because every time Mrs. Haas called on him, he coughed up an inane response. As a sixth grader, I feigned condescension toward Russell, but today he would make me laugh. He was rather endearing in his naivete. A North Dakota Gomer Pyle.

All the girls were pale Germanic blondes, which made me stand out even more freakishly, with my Irish red hair. The blondest of the blondes was named Alice. I sat in the row next to hers, a couple of desks forward. Prim Mrs. Haas uttered something one morning that struck me as ridiculously funny, and I had no one with whom to share my amusement. I happened to glance back and saw the blonde girl grinning at me. Every friendship I've ever formed in my life was based on humor; a bond with someone who "got it". From that day forward, this girl Alice would be the best friend I ever had.

In the metamorphic stage of our friendship, though, I still had to deal with "home". Which essentially meant getting off the bus, tromping silently through the motel office, past Mom hovering behind the check-in desk, alighting in my shared bedroom and slamming the door behind me. My conduit for obtaining music was my transistor radio and a battery-powered record player. My latest '45's were the cloud-blue Turtles hit:

I even had this one (I don't know why):

Probably my favorite single at the time was on a yellow label with a revolver that shouted, "Bang":

Speaking of The Turtles, I liked this one even more than Happy Together, despite what Ferris Bueller might say:

Nobody ever mentions the Grass Roots, but in 1967 they were a phenomenon. This was my favorite:

I didn't have a lot of '45's. I had some miscellaneous Paul Revere and the Raiders singles. Paul Revere and the Raiders was a good band -- in concept -- but not an actually good band. I liked them because I thought Mark Lindsay was cute. At twelve, cuteness is of supreme importance. I tacked photos of the band (from Tiger Beat Magazine) up on my wall. The most nicely arranged archive of a band that I never really liked.

I did buy this one, but I don't know why. Roulette Records had a psychedelic orange label that would make one dizzy if they stared at it too long. This song was something my little sister could appreciate more than me, and yet I bought it:

As ashamed as I am now of the singles I plunked down money for, at least I can say I never dropped my pennies on the counter for songs like, "Up, Up And Away". So, in retrospect, this one doesn't look or sound that bad:

Those basically sum up my paltry record collection.  

My after-school schedule consisted of trekking my way down the driveway, pouting through the "family gauntlet" (which truthfully only consisted of my mom), burrowing behind the door of my birdhouse bedroom and reposing on the bottom bunk to the same six-pack of '45 records. 

In time, my little brother and sister would appear from wherever they'd been cavorting, and would sometimes expect me to let them in the room. This dispensation was granted only rarely. They got used to it. I did let them sleep in there, for God's sake. Depending on the night's TV schedule, I may give a cursory glance to my homework early, while the evening news was on the television in the living room. If it was Monday, I parked myself in front of the big TV -- directly in front of the TV -- to catch the latest Monkees episode. I was in love with the Monkees -- for the longest time, before I had an actual friend, they were my best friends. Of course, they didn't know that...or me.

TV was a hugely important part of my life. Ironically, television was basically awful in 1967. Laugh-In, The Dean Martin Show, Green Acres, Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C, Petticoat Junction, Family Affair. Just awful, corn-pone shows. Yet I watched them. What else was there? Those bastard Hollywood producers really thought the audience was a bunch of rubes. Or they knew we had no choice, so they didn't give a damn. The best thing on TV in 1967 was on too late for me to watch, except for Friday nights -- The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.

Wednesday nights I had CCD, which meant I missed nothing except my pride. Sitting behind a long table with my fellow hostages in the church basement, pretending to pay attention to Father Dukart "teach" us things, thinking, hmmm...Father is kind of cute...not grasping why he paid so much attention to the boys' side of the room. After class the boys squealed like little girls about a stupid new TV show, some space thing they called "Star Trek". Yawn.

I remember 1967 as dark. Dark and gloomy. Wintery; cold. My only goal was to get through. Step by slogging step.

Music-wise, even the top hits were gloomy. Cynical. Sure I remember my poppy songs fondly, but my transistor droned on with songs like this one, over and over:

I have no idea what that song meant, if anything. But it annoyed the hell out of me. And don't even get me started on Jefferson Airplane.

If I'm going to remember the year, though, I'd rather remember the music that was good; not the craptastic Summer of Love twaddle. (P.S. The summer of love was a scam.)

So I like these:

(Sorry for the summer of love nonsense footage, but it's still a good song.)

I made some faux paus in '67. I badgered my soon-to-be sister-in-law to barter away some long-forgotten '45 for this one, which is an awesome song and a classic:

This song I danced to in front of my brother's mirror, and I stand by it yet today:

This song sums up 1967 for me:

I know what you're thinking -- Aren't you missing some songs, Shelly? Yes, but those songs are for another time, another post. No, I haven't forgotten Jim and I haven't forgotten Felix Cavaliere.

And I'm well aware of the Whiter Shades and the Judes, but the songs featured here are how I remember 1967. Feel free to do your own retrospective.

These songs got me through.

And that, after all, was my goal.

I've Apparently Forgotten About The Year 1966 -- On Purpose?

Mostly, 1966 was a good year for me...until December. So, yes, mostly good. The year started out well. I had a birthday party in May. That was only the second birthday party I'd ever had in my life, and I have no memory of my first one, since I was five and had no "friends"; only cousins. For this one, in 1966, I got to invite actual friends. I had a best friend, Cathy, and a new friend who'd just moved to town -- I think her name was Denise...or Debbie (obviously it wasn't a long-term friendship). Having a new friend created some friction between Cathy and me, which was rather unfair. I didn't quiz Cathy on who she hung out with in her neighborhood while I was ensconced out at the farm. The best thing about staying overnight at Denise/Debbie's house was that she lived next door to my boyfriend, Chuck. At night we'd hold up notes in her bedroom window and Chuck would write notes back and hold them up for us to read (okay, it was fifth grade, for heaven's sake). Chuck was my boyfriend by default -- he picked me. I'd come to school in the morning and find anonymous notes inside my desk. It took me a while to figure out where they'd come from. The fact that Chuck stared at me incessantly was my first clue.

So, I had a boyfriend and a birthday party. I invited all my school friends and Cathy, who attended a different elementary school. I would like to say that I invited all the girls in my class, but I'm sure I didn't. Girls are not inherently nice. We have our feuds and resentments and just genuine dislikes. I remember one girl, Kristin, who I absolutely hated. I don't remember why, but I was not nice to her, nor was she to me. She'd apparently pissed me off one too many times. One Saturday afternoon, I phoned the local pizza parlor from my sister's apartment and ordered mass quantities of pizza and a bucket load of sodas to be delivered to Kristin's house. (In those days, there was no credit card required.) It was a crappy thing to do, but at the time I felt very proud of myself. When I think about it now, I just feel like a creep. The funny thing is, today if I knew Kristin, we'd probably be pals. Or maybe not. So, no, I didn't invite every girl I knew to my birthday party.

Cathy and I perused Popplers Music in Grand Forks every Saturday afternoon, and I let her know as my birthday approached which certain '45 I really, really loved. The trouble was, I loved a lot of current '45's. But I had to pick one so she'd know what to get me for my birthday. I picked this one:

Why did I like this?? Now when I hear it, all I can think of is the Dating Game. Let's just say this single did not stand the test of time.

Now, Debbie/Denise also wanted to know which single I wanted for my birthday. I told her this:

When I opened Debbie/Denise's present, I exclaimed, "Oh, I love this song!" Cathy replied, "I thought you said you loved the Tijuana Brass." 

"Well, I love them both," I hurriedly replied. Cathy was pissed for the rest of the day. 

So, yes, I loved a lot of tracks in 1966. (The Righteous Brothers single at least holds up today.)

In 1966, we had a lot of the (by today's standards) old standbys. They weren't old standbys at the time. We had The Mamas and the Papas, The Supremes, The Rascals, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys. The Beatles, of course. Believe it or not, there was a time when these acts were new. Rubber Soul had been released in '65, but it was still reverberating in 1966. The album was world-shattering.

In browsing the list of the top 100 singles of 1966, I decided to pick out the ones I like the best (and, no, Herb Alpert is not included.)

The Vogues:

Later, sometime in the early seventies, I saw The Vogues performing in a little basement bar in Mandan, North Dakota. They were awesome! Sad that they were stuck performing in little basement bars, but did I mention they were awesome? I think they just loved performing. I saw Bobby Vee in that same little basement and he was loving it, too. Some bands wouldn't admit to themselves that they'd sunk to performing in little holes in the ground. The Doobie Brothers played there, too, and were a bit too haughty for their modest circumstances. I'd forgotten about that little bar, which is sad, because it was only 500 feet away from my parents' motel. 

But I digress.

The Lovin' Spoonful:

I think hearing this song was the first time I realized that good music could be quiet. I'd been raised on big pounding drums and big pounding piano and big electric guitar solos, so this song smacked me hard. I never realized it, but The Lovin' Spoonful influenced the way I write songs. As geeky kids, Cathy and I trolled the streets of Grand Forks with our transistors clamped to our ears, and this song in particular made me feel joyful. I've seen John Sebastian on some of those PBS specials and documentaries about Greenwich Village, et cetera, and now he's an old dude, but he definitely had something. To me, the most joyous pop song of all time is "Do You Believe In Magic", largely because of Zal Yanovsky, who's passed away, but boy, what a joie de vivre Zal possessed. That's what music is supposed to be - joyful.

Neil Diamond:

Neil is currently on tour, celebrating fifty years of performing. Fifty! No, that doesn't make me feel old at all; not at all. Cherry Cherry was Neil's first big hit and it charted in 1966. I followed along with Neil's career; purchased his singles recorded on the yellow Bang label. I bought a bunch of them. Neil Diamond was someone who wouldn't let you down. Probably the worst actor off all time (see The Jazz Singer), but sure enough, I watched that movie on HBO over and over, and I have no earthly idea why, other than that I liked Neil Diamond.

The Rascals:

My husband posits that The Rascals could have had a much longer career than they did, because they were so good. I don't know what happened, but I miss them. Granted, those of a certain age will associate this song with a Dr. Pepper commercial, but be that as it may, The Rascals were great.

Here's one...

Okay, yes, Nancy Sinatra only had one true hit, but...have we forgotten it? Nope. It's a weird thing about songs. Nobody can predict what will stick. I mean, think about Ode To Billie Joe, which was, in essence, a real downer, and yet it was gold. Gold! Same with this one. I've karaoked it, because well, who wouldn't?

The Beatles:

I probably fell in love with my husband in 1966, but I was eleven, so...

Chuck was a faded memory by then. Chuck was actually kind of a loser anyway. My (now) husband visited our farm with his family in the summer of 1966. We bonded over my Beatles singles (specifically We Can Work It Out/Day Tripper). Oh, I was eager to share my record collection with him, and he "got it". Most people I knew didn't. When you meet someone who is tripping the same line as you are, you don't forget, because that doesn't happen...hardly ever.

So, this one is a biggie for me:

Johnny Rivers:

Back on the streets of Grand Forks, Cathy and I had become taken with the whole "secret agent" fad. "Get Smart" was playing on our TV's; "The Man From U.N.C.L.E" was a big hit on network TV. I guess James Bond was going strong at the cineplex (we, however, were still mired in bad Elvis Presley flicks). Thus, we decided we, too, could be secret agents. We surveilled the downtown department stores. Our transistors became official transmitters. We had "code names". And Johnny Rivers did this song:

My fun and frolic ended in December when we moved to a new state. Obviously, I knew no one. I was keenly alone. For a painfully shy kid, a friend meant everything. I didn't have any friends. Everybody was a stranger. I don't think I'd ever, up 'til then, initiated a friendship. Friends found me. And I was picky about friends. I couldn't just be friends with any random person. So, everyone in my class was a phantom. What does one do when she needs friends but has none? She creates friends. These became my friends:

As 1966 slid into 1967, I found someone. It took a while, considering my exacting standards. But I made a friend for life. And yes, she approached me.

So, life went on. It wasn't necessarily easy. That's why I don't really tend to remember 1966 fondly. Again, as memory goes, the majority of the year was pretty good, but humans latch onto the bad things, and the bad things overshadow everything else.

In retrospect, though, it was an eventful year in myriad ways.

Growing up isn't easy.

1966 ~ Even More Music!

I was going to make this post about the bad hits of 1966. Well, not "bad", per se, but let's say "quirky" hits. Hits that don't really jibe with the 1966 vibe. The trouble is, I'm not done with the best ones yet; there are just too many. Maybe 1966 was better than my cloudy mind remembered.

I had one birthday party in my whole life. Yes, that's right. Kids were deprived back then. I invited every kid in my class, plus my cousins and of course my best friend, who didn't go to the same school as I. This next song created a bit of a tiff between my best friend and another friend from school (I really only had one "true" friend, but this was, I guess a friend-in-waiting, in case the main friend was unable to fulfill her duties.) Anyway, I had asked for a couple of 45's and when I opened this one from friend-in-waiting, I exclaimed, "Just what I wanted!" Well, this did not go over well with best friend, who complained, "I thought you wanted....". Despite hard feelings, I still love this song:

(Yes, Bill Medley had a career even before "Dirty Dancing".)

Another major milestone in my life was the appearance (on NBC) of this phenomenon. By then my family had moved to a new town and I was lonely. So these four became my confidants, unbeknownst to them. My husband and I watched an episode of their show recently and let me tell, you, it was truly awful. In 1966 I didn't care, though. I really only watched it for the music:

I wasn't cool back then. Part of it was because I was a kid. Partially it was because I didn't have enough money to be cool. I had a paltry record collection -- and by "record collection", I mean 45's. My brother had LP's; I only had about two LP's and that was because he bought them for me as gifts. So I didn't have the opportunity to become a sophisticated music connoisuer. One of the LP's my brother bought me, though, had this song on it, and it was sophisticated...well, more so than the Monkees:

The Mamas & The Papas boasted two things that no other group of that time can claim:  two of the best pop singers ever ~ Denny Doherty and Cass Elliot. (The third thing they probably wouldn't "boast" about is that -- I suspect -- Michelle Phillips' mic was always on the "off position.) Oh, and duh, John Phillips wrote the songs (hello!)

I always liked this next song when it came on our kitchen radio. I had absolutely no idea what it meant -- I didn't know why somebody had to stone somebody else. It seemed mean. But I guess that's what packed a punch for me; that and the sort of old-time raggedy piano.

My husband worships Bob Dylan like I worship Merle Haggard. But at least Merle had more than two hit songs. I know, intellectually, that Dylan is a great writer. We were watching a PBS special on the history of Duluth, Minnesota, and the narrator quoted some words about the city. I thought, wow, that says it so poetically. Then she said, "words written by Bob Dylan". So, yea, he can say things better than almost anybody. I give him that.

You know those groups that were always around but never got any respect? Well, here's one now. I think it's because their songs were so....rudimentary? But in 1966 - 1967 hardly anyone was bigger than Tommy James & The Shondells. Ever go to a bar with a juke box or to a wedding dance and not hear "Mony Mony"? I thought not. How about, "crimson and clover over and over"? Yea, so see? Tommy James was the master of repeating the same three or four words over and over and making them a hit. Thus:

Another artist my husband worships is another that I can take or leave. Sure, in 1965 this band had a huge hit song that was famous for its opening guitar riff. But I can count on one hand and have fingers left over, the number of Rolling Stones tracks I truly like. Sorry; that's just how it is. I like Ruby Tuesday and As Tears Go By. This one is...okay:

There's a reason I'm not including a live performance of this next song. There's just something about a seventy-year-old guy singing, "Devil With The Blue Dress". No offense to old dudes; I, too, am old. But you don't mess with my memories. Trust me on this: one could really do the jerk to this song, especially in front of the mirror. Here's Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels:

 I defy anyone to say this is not a great song. I have no idea who comprised the Left Banke; I really should research that one day. This is probably the worst quality video I've ever featured, and it cuts off before the end, but I work with what I've got. "Walk Away Renee":

Some 45's had special sleeves -- not the ones with the cutout in the middle, but ones with real technicolor photographs. I had one of those. It was for "Back In My Arms Again" and it featured three women in elegant long gowns. Kind of like this:

The Supremes had a relatively short shelf-life, but they were huge in their time. This song certainly wasn't my favorite of theirs, but 1966 is what 1966 is. 1964 to 1966 was The Supremes' two-year reign. After that, it all looked kind of irrelevant, like they were trying too hard.

The Turtles hadn't quite hit their stride yet in 1966. That would come a year later with a song that will live forever in the minds of Ferris Bueller fans and in the minds of people like me. I could never quite get a handle on the Turtles. They were like the IT guys in your company; the guys you call when something isn't functioning right, and they pick up the phone if they're not too engrossed in their video game. Then, at the Christmas party, they blow you away with their previously undisclosed awesomeness. That, in essence, is the Turtles.

I think (think!) I have exhausted the best of the best of 1966.

Next time, the quirky.

 

 

It's The Summer Of Love! Again!

Have you been following along? Are you sick of this topic yet? Are you wondering if I will ever stop?

Well, of course I will stop! There is an ending to the charts, naturally. Well, maybe there isn't. Maybe there's a chart somewhere of every record that sold at least one copy in 1967, but trust me, that won't be happening here. By the time I get to the record of some guy humming through a comb, I know it's time to stop.

But, in all seriousness, this does end. At number 50.

And believe me, there are some really good songs yet to relive.

Unfortunately, this isn't one of them. Oh sure. "I've Got Rhythm" ~ who doesn't know that song, right? Written by George Gershwin. A nice song that perhaps Fred and Ginger would dance to. This version? Hmmm....The group calls themselves "The Happenings", because apparently, the name "The Crew Cuts" was already taken. I'm as conservative as the next guy, but the Happenings just don't seem to fit with 1967. Kudos on the lemon yellow blazers, though.



Number 37 is by Petula Clark, and just let me say, I have absolutely no recollection of this song whatsoever. That doesn't mean it's bad, because I'm a sucker for French, even though I don't understand it. But I don't remember this song....at all. And it was #37? Well, here is This Is My Song:



Now, this is more my style. And one of my all-time favorite singers. As you know, this song was also recorded by the Four Tops. I love the Four Tops, but I love this version more.

As a side note, don't you find these "dancers" distracting? I bet Johnny wanted to do a couple of moves of his own, and reach out and just smack them. And trust me, we didn't dance like that in 1967. But I guess that's what you get when you try to do the Jerk to a slow song....morons.

Here is Johnny Rivers:



I'm really excited about number thirty-nine. This is one of my all-time favorite pop songs. Yes, everybody thinks "Happy Together" is the Turtles' best song. Maybe it is; maybe it isn't. I just happen to like this one better:



That was fun! People forget sometimes that music is supposed to be fun! And I love seeing a performer really enjoying himself. This was a really nice find!

Number forty is another one of my favorite songs from the era. Oh sure, you can have your Last Train To Clarksville and your Daydream Believer, but this was the Monkees getting all ironic and cynical (and that in itself is ironic, considering it was the Monkees).

I do also appreciate that, though Micky Dolenz is upfront about the guys not playing on their own records, he almost looks like a drummer in this video.

Here is Pleasant Valley Sunday:



No time-appropriate video of number forty-one, but Tommy James still sounds the same, doesn't he?

Oh yea, this song had a couple of lives. But we who were there will never forget our AM radios blaring this song...over and over and over...



I didn't even know that Smokey Robinson and the Miracles were still making hit records in 1967. Well, I was wrong, wasn't I?

Because here is "I Second That Emotion":



I had absolutely no idea what "Expressway To Your Heart" was; until I heard it.

So, yes, of course, I know this song. Kind of reminds me of the Rascals, and yet it is by the Soul Survivors. I don't know how or why the song rang no bells with me, but obviously I've heard this a million times, and here is one more time:



Number forty-four is by my favorite, and I'm sure yours (okay, that is irony, of course), Engelbert Humperdinck, doing that old country favorite, "Please Release Me".

There are so many things to say about this video, I'm not sure where to start.

First of all, why are there strobe lights flashing on his nether regions? Is this a natural phenomenon? Because I've never personally experienced that.

Number two ~ she's just trying to sleep, and here's Engelbert belting out a number in the bed, on his zebra-patterned sheets, and that's just insensitive. Let her sleep, Engelbert! Geez, I would take my zebra-striped pillow and smack him over the head a few times! Bastard.

And notice he wants her to release him "after the lovin'". Typical.

Yes, he's found a new love, dear. That's because she's got a steady supply of booze.

And he's singing this whole thing while admiring himself in the mirror.

Engelbert, you are just a pig! Seriously. You have no redeeming virtues.

And you sing it with such angst. There's no angst, Engelbert! You are a narcissistic creep. You and your new floozy deserve each other.

I hope you and Fabio are deliriously happy comparing hairdos.

I'm thinking the women of 1967 maybe outwardly put up with this crap, but inwardly, they cleaned out the guy's bank account and moved on to the Italian Rivera. And never again listened to another Engelbert Humperdinck song.



And thus we end tonight with number forty-four. Sorry to end this on a sour note. But seriously, Engelbert? That's just sorry and shallow and sad.

But more, better songs to come!

Stay tuned, as we round out the top fifty from the summer of love!

The Summer of Love Redux

It's rare that one particular year in music can produce so many classic songs. 1967 did that.

I never really gave 1967 a whole lotta thought, in the annals of popular music, but you know, one year tended to waft into another, especially in the sixties, if you get my drift. And by "get my drift", I mean, "trying to sound way hipper than I obviously was, since I was only twelve years old".

That said, I DO remember popular music from those years, especially given that the AM radio was playing all manner of popular music then; not just one tiny isolated genre. How else does one explain the intermingling of Bobby Gentry, the Rolling Stones, and, say, Frank and Nancy Sinatra? We heard it all, and we liked most of it.

I sat in the back seat of our Ford Galaxie, and the it didn't really matter which station the radio was tuned to. All of the stations played everything. And my dad didn't even make one derogatory comment about any of the songs. He actually didn't make any comment, and neither did my mom, so I was left, there in the back seat with my toddler siblings, to make up my own mind about the music.

So, here we are. At #26 on the charts. And here are the Seekers:



I vaguely remember walking along, alone, singing that song out loud. Why? Well, it's got everything a mere adolescent would enjoy...the melody was sing-songy. The words were easy to remember, because they tended to repeat a lot. Folk music was meant to be that way. It was perfect for folks to gather at the hootenanny, and, I guess, commune. Hootenanny. You never hear that word anymore. We should bring it back, just because it's fun to say.

#27 - I Was Made To Love Her - Stevie Wonder

A note: I try really hard to find actual performances of the songs from the period in which they were hits. This was the best quality video I could find, but you will note that Stevie is not actually singing in this video. A concept video, perhaps? Or just lazy editing? Don't know.

I also would be ignoring the obvious if I didn't mention that this video completely reminds me of Eddie Murphy doing Stevie Wonder.

Anyway, it's a better song that Georgy Girl, but taste is all relative, I guess.



Fine; so much for original performances. I have failed with this next song, and it really makes me mad, because this is one of my very favorite songs, and I don't even like the Association. To be honest, most of their songs grate on my nerves (especially "Windy" - see #5. And who names their kid "Windy"? I think that's just asking for trouble.)

But I love this song, and the only decent video I could find is from, I think, 1983, but still:



Number twenty-nine is, again, by the Supremes, who, if you ask me, were kind of chart hogs in 1967. And for the most part, their 1967 songs weren't even very good. But that's what happens once you make a name for yourself. Anybody will buy anything.

This is another song that makes me clench my teeth, but that's just me. I mean no disrespect. I like a lot of Supremes songs; just (especially) not this one.

Here they are (in silver lame this time - I appreciate that they at least change up their wardrobe colors) with Reflections:



1967 was the year that Frankie Valli ditched those damn Four Seasons for once and for all. The hell with those guys! I was getting tired of singing falsetto all the time anyway, said imaginary Frankie. That stuff is hard when you're my age!

This is one of those songs that one will always remember. I'm not sure why, but my guess is because of the Bacharach/David-type arrangement. Unfortunately, that also dates it. Takes one back to the days of Dionne Warwick asking how to get to San Jose. But that doesn't make it a bad song. It's actually a "not bad" song.



#31 is by Arthur Conley. Who? Yea, I know. I wonder if Arthur ever did anything besides this one. If not, fine by me. This is a good song. I could look him up, but I've got more songs to get to, and so little time.

Here is Sweet Soul Music:



Number thirty-two's video is obviously not a 1967 performance. I mean, you know Aaron Neville. You probably thought that all he did was country duets with Linda Ronstadt. Obviously not.

Another voice I love; Aaron Neville. Tell It Like It Is (obviously with help from that guy who was married to Cher, and from Bonnie and her guitar):



If you know the Monkees (and who doesn't?), you know that they never did actual performances. That's because they never actually played on their own songs (well, sure, maybe the maracas). Micky Dolenz will be the first to tell you that.

So, their songs are all "performance pieces", which is another term for "cheesy situation comedy skits" that all the cool kids (and the nerdy kids - raise your hands!) watched on Tuesday nights (was it Tuesdays?) on NBC.

So, here is A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You (#33 on the charts for 1967):



You probably don't know Bobby Vee, unless you're my age. Bobby Vee (nee Bobby Velline) was born in Fargo, North Dakota (my home state!), and he has a storied musical history. (See anything about the Day The Music Died, except of course the actual songs about that, which I hate, hate, hate).

I'm not going to recount Bobby Vee's career here, but I will say, it's nice nowadays that artists are allowed to use their real names, because "Vee" is stupid.

But Robert Velline had some really nice songs. No, not Rubber Ball, but others. I saw him once in person; some kind of bar gig; and he was a really good, professional entertainer. Which I'm sure he still is, by the way.

Number thirty-four on the 1967 charts is Come Back When You Grow Up (and no, there is no video ~ fine. Whatever.)



I hate to end this post on a down note, but I must be true to the charts.

Let me preface this video by saying I really hate those "acting" songs. You know, the overly dramatic renditions; the bad Laurence Olivier auditions. They remind me of smoking jackets and cigarette holders and those Laura Petrie flip hairdo's.

I like "retro" as much as the next person, but this is just a little too strange for even me.

This song has no redeeming virtues, but somebody must have liked it. A lot of people, apparently. Even more than Johnny Rivers and the Turtles? It must have been the geezer vote.

So, rock on (ha), I say, Vikki Carr. I bet Ed Sullivan just loved you. He didn't "get" the Beatles, but he got this.



Amazingly, we are through number thirty-five, and we still haven't gotten to some of my favorite songs from 1967. And the ones that are left are way more memorable than some of these others.

It was quite a year, and you'll be surprised at what rounds out the top fifty from the summer of love.

Yea, Yea, The Summer of Love

I wonder who named 1967 "The Summer of Love". Obviously not a marketing person. Because if you're going to declare something the "Summer of....", you want to have that commercial tie-in.

For example, how about "The Summer of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese"?

You could give away wedge-shaped key chains; bumper stickers featuring globs of macaroni clinging together on a fork. You know. Marketing-type stuff.

From what I can tell, the Summer of Love really had no commercial potential, except for Bill Graham of the Fillmore West, who could tout his acts, the Jefferson Airplane and well, I guess that's just about it, on handbills, of which nobody could read, because all the kids were too stoned, and were just wandering aimlessly on the streets of San Fran, and playbills weren't really anything they could hawk to buy more drugs, so what good were they?

I sometimes wonder what happened to those kids from 1967? I guess they'd be retiring about now, but oh, the stories they can tell their grandchildren. Oh wait, maybe not.

"What did you do when you were a kid, Grandpa?"

"Oh, Thad, that's not important now. What's really important is that we get out there and vote for Obama! Wanna toke?"

If you watch newsreels from 1967, you would get the impression that everything was groovy, and kind of wavy, but the hit songs from that year don't necessarily reflect that.

But, you know, memory is selective.

1967, actually, was a pretty good year for rock music. Not to disappoint the old hippies, but most of it was pure pop.

While the kids on Haight Ashbury were zoning out, chillin' to seven and a half minute psych-o-delic jams, the rest of the population was buying 45-rpm records of songs such as this (yes, this was the number one hit of 1967):



(Kudos, Neil Diamond. Jan Wenner can ignore you all he wants, but this was the perfect pop song.)

I'm just going to go down the line here, and recount the top hits from that seminal year, in order, so let's see who wins ~ the hippie kids or possibly not.



(I always loved this song. Lulu; she never had another hit, but she was in a movie with Sidney Poitier, so she can be an American Idol mentor if she wants. Yea, yea, Petula Clark, sure. She had some hits. But was she in a movie with Sidney Poitier? Tough luck, Petunia ~ sorry, Petula.)



(Isn't Alex Chilton the epitome of every sixteen-year-old from time immemorial? Get that hair out of your eyes! And stop sulking, Alex! Stop being so moody! Ahh, the joys of raising a teenaged male. At least Alex was bringing home some moolah for the family, so they tended to overlook the bad posture and pouty look.)



(I know that this song is "mysterious"; or, in my opinion, "missing something". I used to sit in the back seat of the Ford Galaxy and hear this song blaring over the AM radio, and wonder, what the hell? But the main point I want to make about Bobbie Gentry is that she wore her hair in that long, dark "fall". Mesmerizing.)



(Let me just say how much I hated, and still hate, this song. I'll grant you, the Association had one good song ~ Never My Love ~ but this? It just grates on my nerves. No wonder kids took drugs. If I was on a desert island, and this was the only song I had to listen to, I would prefer to just drown myself and get it over with.)



(Ahhh, Felix. This song will still be played in the year 2112, and kids will say, yes! This song is cool! Really, was it from two centuries ago? I guess those neanderthals invented fire, after all.)

And speaking of fire, okay, I skipped the line a couple of songs, but well, c'mon:



(THIS was the song that I will always remember 1967 for. I was but twelve years old, and I don't know what it was about this song, and about Jim Morrison, but this was IT.)

Believe it or not, and the charts don't lie, THIS song superseded Light My Fire, by, in fact, a couple of spaces. So, though Grandpa Hipster may want entertain selective memory (or is it just dementia?), here ya go, Grandpa. Explain THIS to the grandkids:



Oh, look! The Monkees are back! Yes, the Monkees. Sure, pretend they weren't the biggest thing that happened in 1967. Pretend all you want. I was there. I remember.



I have nothing against Ferris Bueller (or John Hughes, for that matter), but you know, you didn't invent that song.

I happened to be there when it was happening.



Remember the Beatles? (ha)

Yes, they charted in 1967, too. Not with their choicest song, mind you. But, yes, they were still around.



The interesting thing (to me) about this song, by the Buckinghams, is that I have no idea what the backing singers are singing. But it's catchy, whatever it is.



You'd never know it, but this song was number thirteen in the year 1967. Yes, thirteen. Not that there's anything wrong with thirteen, but if you were to listen to the revisionists, you'd think this was the number one song of all time. It wasn't.



Okay, this video is horrendous, but it's the only one I could find of the Strawberry Alarm Clock performing this song.

And I'm officially nominating the Strawberry Alarm Clock for the worst band name ever.

I wonder whatever happened to the SAC. And who was in the band? And did any of them go on to bigger and better things? I wish I cared enough to look that up, but it's late, and all I know is, I heard this song a lot on my transistor radio as I was riding the stupid school bus, and listening to all the geeky boys talk about Star Trek, and I was bored out of my mind, and this song didn't help things, believe me. I do sort of remember 1967 as the year of perpetual boredom. But maybe that was just me.



I'll end this post with number fifteen.

And who could forget the Rolling Stones? Nobody. Because they're still out there, touring. Even at their age. Those kids from the year 2167 will be saying, "The Stones are still touring? Who do they think they are? Cher? Or Elton John?"

Nevertheless, you can't deny that this song, the number fifteen hit of 1967, is a great one.


In all candor, 1967 was a damn good year for music. I'll give it that.

But it's not due to some headband-wearing, greasy-haired, Nehru-jacketed seventeen-year-old who was tripping out on the California coast.

No, it was solely due to some awesome talent, and to some record producers who knew how to create mega-hits (Frank and Nancy notwithstanding).

I got through number fifteen, but I really only scratched the surface.

This calls for another blog post! Let's keep keepin' on with hits from the summer of love!

But I still say, let's rename it something that we, as consumers, can get behind. I'm thinking the Summer of Trix Cereal.

Because, Silly Rabbit. Trix are for kids. Moron.

Jaded

No, I'm not jaded, but I think the music-buying public is.

Maybe it's supply and demand. The more accessible music is, the less value people place on it.

I hate to use that old, "back when I was a kid", but I will anyway. Back when I was a kid, it took me awhile to save up a dollar to buy a single. So, I had to be judicious, and really consider my purchase beforehand, since it would be awhile before I would have enough money to buy another.

It was fun, really. There were two record stores in my town, but Poppler's Music was the best one; the cool one. The one that where all the hip ten-year-olds loitered on a Saturday afternoon, to the consternation of the shop-owner, no doubt. They'd have the latest hit song blaring over the speakers. It was a lure, I tell you. A diabolical marketing scheme. The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Dave Clark Five. They wanted nothing more than to make you part with your dollar in change that you'd saved up from weeks of doing dishes and euphemistically "dusting furniture".

Then, once you'd finally decided on the Righteous Brothers, you'd take that record home and wear the grooves off it.

You appreciated that record. Hell, you memorized it. It was part of your sorry collection of singles that basically consisted of "Last Train To Clarksville" and "We Can Work It Out".

Why do I know every nuance of those songs? Because I played them about three thousand times on my little tinny record player.

Today, you listen to a song; not even the whole song, and click! Time to move on to the next one!

Music is disposable.

Entertain me now! I'm busy! I can't spare the time! Gotta move on; gotta keep moving; moving.

That's the deal with music today. Nobody has the time.

So, humor me if I like to relive a time when we really got to know the songs. I like that.