“Exciting” is the first word that comes to mind when thinking about Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows. For one thing, there’s Elvis himself: he’s captured here in the infancy of his superstardom, at the peak of his rockin’ form, giving some of the most revolutionary performances in the history of American popular music—and the history of American television. Which brings up another reason why this Image Entertainment DVD package is so exciting: it represents American cultural history in the making. The early days of television, the early days of rock ‘n’ roll, and two of the most venerable personalities of both art forms, coming together marvelously to form a union that is at once highly unlikely and highly touching. But perhaps the most exciting thing about this 2006 release is that it preserves these cultural artifacts for posterity, with a thoughtful, accessible presentation to boot.
Elvis Presley achieved mainstream popularity in 1956, when rock ‘n’ roll was still considered a wild new style that was bound to fade away once the kids grew up and developed more sophisticated tastes. Many adults hated this so-called music, but as long as rock ‘n’ roll artists were topping the charts, variety shows had to feature them. After all, variety shows of the time were supposed to provide “something for everyone”—and that included the teenagers with their crazy rock ‘n’ roll music. Meanwhile, Elvis Presley was already known for his wildman antics: flashy clothes, flamboyant vocals, sexually-charged hip and leg movements. There was nobody like him in showbiz at the time. He was a white man who sang in the style of black R&B artists and appropriated their rhythmic body movements. Yet he was not the charlatan that many made him out to be; he added a distinct country tinge that followed naturally from his Southern upbringing, helping to pioneer a new hybrid style that transcended numerous boundaries. After all, his single pairing “Don’t Be Cruel” and “Hound Dog” hit #1 on Billboard’s pop, R&B, and country charts. Yet he was every bit as divisive as he was a uniting force: while teenage girls shrieked in amazement and arousal at Elvis’ obvious sex appeal, their parents shrieked in horror at the qualities that stood in direct contrast to the arch-conservatism of the 1950s: his raucous, reckless sound and sexual openness. His willful mimicking of black music styles also raised quite a few eyebrows in those racially tense times.
And then there was Ed Sullivan, who made a name for himself as a writer and perhaps should have stayed in that position. In retrospect, he was the very antithesis of a television star: he was not good-looking, he had little discernible charm or wit, he was uptight and rigid, and he never seemed the least bit comfortable in front of a camera—he is still legendary for his tendency to flub practically everything he attempted to say. Why was he given his own TV show? Two reasons: one, he started out in the late 1940s, the very beginning of American television, when nobody really knew what to do with the brand-new medium. Two, he had a knack for spotting the hottest new acts in entertainment and booking them on his show. Yet his was always pitched as a family-friendly program; how would Elvis Presley fit in? Given the immense popularity of the greasy-haired singing sensation, it was only a matter of time before America found out.
Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows contains all three of the Ed Sullivan episodes in which Elvis performed, reprised in their entirety as they originally aired on September 9, 1956, October 28, 1956, and January 6, 1957. (The last of these is notorious because Elvis was filmed from the waist up due to his crazed stage behavior in his first two appearances.) One could argue that a DVD consisting solely of Elvis’ performances from these episodes would have served the purpose better, but getting the entire episodes on DVD allows viewers of today to appreciate the context in which Elvis reached unprecedented numbers of American television viewers over 50 years ago. On the first episode, for example, Sullivan was recuperating from a car accident, and this was actually a surprisingly fortunate turn of events. The gloriously uncouth British actor Charles Laughton served as guest host, sharing his off-color, totally inappropriate sense of humor with a presumably appalled audience. Elvis couldn’t possibly have seemed as shocking under these circumstances as he would have had Sullivan been on duty! And throughout all of these episodes, one gets a good idea of just how revolutionary rock ‘n’ roll was at the time. Look at the acts with whom Elvis shared the bill: Indian beauty Amru Sani and Rubenesque Brazilian Leny Eversong delivering dreadfully overwrought performances of popular songs; stage actors singing numbers from the musicals The King And I and The Most Happy Fella; Senor Wences and Arthur Worsley, two of the worst ventriloquists in the world (lest you think that “talent” means the ability to say “a gottle o’ geer” without moving your mouth); the effeminate daredevil acrobat Unus; and an extremely young Carol Burnett doing a hilarious musical comedy routine. But for those who want to go straight to the “King of Rock ‘n’ Roll,” there is direct chapter access so that one can view each song or medley individually, plus there is an “Elvis-Only Playback Option” which allows viewers to watch all of Elvis’ performances from each episode in one fell swoop.
Elvis appears with his classic entourage: Bill Black on bass, Scotty Moore on guitar, D.J. Fontana on drums, and The Jordanaires on backup vocals. These performances are the stuff of legend, all participants brimming with energy and style. “Love Me Tender” proves to be a bit of a challenge for Elvis to perform under these urgent circumstances, but the rockers ROCK beyond belief. Elvis displays contrasting sides to his personality: for all his ostentatious behavior while he’s singing, he proves himself to be a shy, humble person when speaking to the audience. Even during his songs, he is clearly embarrassed and overwhelmed by the number of adoring fans who scream at him almost incessantly. This would explain why he often looks into the audience and chuckles mid-song, but from the number of lyrics he flubs (especially during “Too Much”), one can also surmise that he was nervous. He comes off as a gentle country boy who was not ready for life in the limelight, and this makes Elvis a tragic hero in some respects. It’s sad to think that someone so talented and so vital ended up becoming another statistic in the ages-old story of performers who were simply not ready for success when they found it. Nevertheless, Elvis gives it all he’s got and takes everything in stride; “Don’t Be Cruel” always comes off well, “When My Blue Moon Turns To Gold Again” is nice to hear in this setting, and his rendition of Little Richard’s “Ready Teddy” is truly electrifying. His dedication of the spiritual “Peace In The Valley” to the people of Hungary is especially moving. Hungary at the time was facing stiff Soviet opposition to its attempts to enact democratic reforms, and for Elvis to dedicate a religious song to that struggle was a keen move indeed; remember that in the Soviet bloc, religion was outlawed.
In addition to the actual episodes, the numerous special features give viewers a chance to gain intriguing insight into the relationship between Elvis and Ed Sullivan. Interviews with Sullivan’s producer Marlo Lewis, TV personality Wink Martindale, The Jordanaires’ Gordon Stoker, and Elvis’ friend Jerry Schilling illuminate both Elvis’ and Sullivan’s personalities, while Elvis-related clips of later Sullivan episodes indicate that the host really meant it when he famously described Elvis as a “decent, fine boy.” One can tell that Elvis Presley and Ed Sullivan, as different as they were, had a mutual and profound respect and admiration for each other, continuing to support each other’s endeavors long after Elvis’ final Sullivan appearance. An interesting aside about the special features: the back cover of the DVD box implies that the song “Colonel Tom” is an Elvis song, but in reality it is part of a performance by comedian John Byner. Byner’s appearance is from June 21, 1964, and the song is quite similar to Ray Charles’ “What’d I Say,” Elvis’ remake of same being his current hit at the time.
The package is bolstered by many more special features, excellent audio and video restoration, and an analytical essay by veteran rock scribe Greil Marcus. This well-conceived collection is a must-have for any rock ‘n’ roll fan who has even a passing interest in the genre’s history. Scratch that; it’s a must-have for anyone who has even a passing interest in the vast cultural history and legacy of these here United States.
Copyright © 2007 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
You call that music?!?!
Never one to shy away from controversy, I’ve decided to tackle one of the most persistent issues affecting popular music: the generation gap. Let’s take a look at some of the prevalent attitudes about the subject and see what I think of them.
1. “Today’s music doesn’t have the same kinds of melodies, harmonies, and attitude that the music of my youth had!”
It’s not supposed to. If it did, it wouldn’t be today’s music. And if you can relate to the sentiment in quotation marks, let me ask you this: exactly what good does it do to harp on the fact that today’s music is different from yesterday’s music? If you grew up in the ‘50s and your parents complained that Bill Haley didn’t sound like Glenn Miller, that didn’t make Bill Haley sound like Glenn Miller. If you grew up in the ‘70s and your parents complained that Aerosmith didn’t sound like Bill Haley, that didn’t make Aerosmith sound like Bill Haley. In fact, in such cases all your parents did was judge your generation’s music based on what it wasn’t. They made no attempt to evaluate it on its own terms and thus completely missed the point of it. If they had taken it at face value, they may still have disliked it, but the simple fact of the matter is that they were too narrow-minded to give it a fair chance. Don’t be just as narrow-minded with today’s music.
2. “It seems like you no longer need talent to make it!”
It’s been a long time since anyone needed talent to make it. As much as it pains me to say this, I think early rock ‘n’ roll was to blame. In the 1950s, rock ‘n’ roll appealed mostly to teenagers; furthermore, many adults at the time thought of rock ‘n’ roll as nothing but a bunch of noise with a pounding beat. It was only a matter of time until enterprising businessmen realized that you could take a cute kid, have him or her make some records with a beat, and watch as smitten teenagers bought that artist’s records and gazed amorously at him or her during live performances—even if he or she had no talent. Fabian was the original archetype of the teen idol who couldn’t sing. For crying out loud, Fabian himself admitted that he couldn’t sing!
Today, the problem has indeed gotten worse because of technology. There was only so much doctoring that could be done to Fabian’s voice in 1959; have a good listen to any of his records and you can instantly sense his lack of vocal skill. But now, recording technology is so advanced that one could conceivably record a song one note at a time, apply electronic pitch correction to every note, string the notes together, and end up with a seamless mix sounding like one perfect take. Thus, a singer who can’t sing can nonetheless sound good on record. But ultimately, talent is still a vital asset. Look at what happened to Ashlee Simpson, for example: one little goof on Saturday Night Live and suddenly everyone knew that she lip-synched to pre-recorded vocal tracks when she performed “live.” From that point onward, she had to actually sing live in order to prove that she could. Unfortunately, these actual live performances proved nothing except that she had a limited range and poor breath control. Whenever she was introduced on television, many audience members would greet her by booing. By means of damage control, she had to rush out a follow-up album and make an apologetic second appearance on Saturday Night Live. That was back in 2005, but even now her name is still bandied about as a joke in and of itself.
3. “How can young people listen to this stuff?”
Because we genuinely like what's out there today. Not everyone likes everything that’s currently on the charts, but that’s always been (and always will be) the case. The point is that we like at least some of today’s music because it speaks to us on a different level than anything else; it was made for us and, in many cases, by us. From my writing you can tell that I like oldies, but oldies were made for someone else and I just so happened to discover them and enjoy them. When I find something contemporary that I really dig, it reaffirms my youth more than anything else. It also makes me feel confident that great music is still being made and that I don’t have to reach into the past to find high levels of quality.
4. If you like today’s music, you don’t like older music, and vice versa.
In my experience, this is not something that a lot of people say; it’s something that they imply. I’ve lost track of how many times it has happened that someone learns of my affinity for oldies and then proceeds to trash my generation’s music as if I am not a member of my own generation! Well, if you doubt that someone can love music from more than one era, just look through One Note Ahead.
5. “Contemporary music doesn’t appeal to me, but since I’m over the age of 40, I know it’s not supposed to.”
Actually, that’s just a matter of personal taste. A few years ago I had a friend who was in his late 40s and he happily owned at least one Backstreet Boys CD and was gushing about how Incubus' "Drive" was one of his favorite songs at the time. My mother is almost 60 and she constantly puts me to shame with her knowledge of contemporary rock—admittedly my rock ‘n’ roll IQ is more “yesterday” than “today.” And I’ll never forget one particular appearance by Liza Minnelli on Tony Danza’s now-departed daytime talk show. Danza asked Minnelli whom she admires and without hesitation she replied, "Maroon 5." She then went on and on about how great a singer that band's Adam Levine is. I could cite plenty more examples, but you get my point.
6. There’s such a thing as being too young to know about a certain artist.
Like when an unsuspecting concertgoer told a 21-year-old musician friend of mine that she’s too young to be influenced by Led Zeppelin. I rubbed his face in the fact that I dressed up as Roy Orbison for Halloween in 1997, when I was merely 16 years old. He became visibly uncomfortable; needless to say, I was pleased. There really is a definite double standard at play when it comes to this philosophy of being “too young.” After all, young musicians all the time say that they’re influenced by The Beatles or The Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan, and that’s perfectly acceptable. But Led Zeppelin? Nope, sorry.
The truth is that you simply have no way of knowing what people have been exposed to in their youth. Last year I saw ‘50s pop pianist Roger Williams on the public television special Moments To Remember, explaining how amazed he gets when young people tell him they know his music. I can only quote from memory, but he said that he responds, “You’re too young to even know who I am! After all, I am 81 years old!” The young people then reply, “Oh, no, my grandparents played your records all the time when I was growing up.” As of the taping of that program, he still got floored by such statements.
7. “I hate today’s music! That is, if you can even CALL it music! I just don’t get how anybody can like this crap!”
Music touches people on a profoundly personal level. There's just no arguing matters of taste. If you don’t like something, don’t listen to it. If it’s a song you can’t get away from no matter how you try, learn to tune it out. And if you miss the way music used to sound, listen to older music.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my soapbox is caving in.
Copyright © 2007 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
1. “Today’s music doesn’t have the same kinds of melodies, harmonies, and attitude that the music of my youth had!”
It’s not supposed to. If it did, it wouldn’t be today’s music. And if you can relate to the sentiment in quotation marks, let me ask you this: exactly what good does it do to harp on the fact that today’s music is different from yesterday’s music? If you grew up in the ‘50s and your parents complained that Bill Haley didn’t sound like Glenn Miller, that didn’t make Bill Haley sound like Glenn Miller. If you grew up in the ‘70s and your parents complained that Aerosmith didn’t sound like Bill Haley, that didn’t make Aerosmith sound like Bill Haley. In fact, in such cases all your parents did was judge your generation’s music based on what it wasn’t. They made no attempt to evaluate it on its own terms and thus completely missed the point of it. If they had taken it at face value, they may still have disliked it, but the simple fact of the matter is that they were too narrow-minded to give it a fair chance. Don’t be just as narrow-minded with today’s music.
2. “It seems like you no longer need talent to make it!”
It’s been a long time since anyone needed talent to make it. As much as it pains me to say this, I think early rock ‘n’ roll was to blame. In the 1950s, rock ‘n’ roll appealed mostly to teenagers; furthermore, many adults at the time thought of rock ‘n’ roll as nothing but a bunch of noise with a pounding beat. It was only a matter of time until enterprising businessmen realized that you could take a cute kid, have him or her make some records with a beat, and watch as smitten teenagers bought that artist’s records and gazed amorously at him or her during live performances—even if he or she had no talent. Fabian was the original archetype of the teen idol who couldn’t sing. For crying out loud, Fabian himself admitted that he couldn’t sing!
Today, the problem has indeed gotten worse because of technology. There was only so much doctoring that could be done to Fabian’s voice in 1959; have a good listen to any of his records and you can instantly sense his lack of vocal skill. But now, recording technology is so advanced that one could conceivably record a song one note at a time, apply electronic pitch correction to every note, string the notes together, and end up with a seamless mix sounding like one perfect take. Thus, a singer who can’t sing can nonetheless sound good on record. But ultimately, talent is still a vital asset. Look at what happened to Ashlee Simpson, for example: one little goof on Saturday Night Live and suddenly everyone knew that she lip-synched to pre-recorded vocal tracks when she performed “live.” From that point onward, she had to actually sing live in order to prove that she could. Unfortunately, these actual live performances proved nothing except that she had a limited range and poor breath control. Whenever she was introduced on television, many audience members would greet her by booing. By means of damage control, she had to rush out a follow-up album and make an apologetic second appearance on Saturday Night Live. That was back in 2005, but even now her name is still bandied about as a joke in and of itself.
3. “How can young people listen to this stuff?”
Because we genuinely like what's out there today. Not everyone likes everything that’s currently on the charts, but that’s always been (and always will be) the case. The point is that we like at least some of today’s music because it speaks to us on a different level than anything else; it was made for us and, in many cases, by us. From my writing you can tell that I like oldies, but oldies were made for someone else and I just so happened to discover them and enjoy them. When I find something contemporary that I really dig, it reaffirms my youth more than anything else. It also makes me feel confident that great music is still being made and that I don’t have to reach into the past to find high levels of quality.
4. If you like today’s music, you don’t like older music, and vice versa.
In my experience, this is not something that a lot of people say; it’s something that they imply. I’ve lost track of how many times it has happened that someone learns of my affinity for oldies and then proceeds to trash my generation’s music as if I am not a member of my own generation! Well, if you doubt that someone can love music from more than one era, just look through One Note Ahead.
5. “Contemporary music doesn’t appeal to me, but since I’m over the age of 40, I know it’s not supposed to.”
Actually, that’s just a matter of personal taste. A few years ago I had a friend who was in his late 40s and he happily owned at least one Backstreet Boys CD and was gushing about how Incubus' "Drive" was one of his favorite songs at the time. My mother is almost 60 and she constantly puts me to shame with her knowledge of contemporary rock—admittedly my rock ‘n’ roll IQ is more “yesterday” than “today.” And I’ll never forget one particular appearance by Liza Minnelli on Tony Danza’s now-departed daytime talk show. Danza asked Minnelli whom she admires and without hesitation she replied, "Maroon 5." She then went on and on about how great a singer that band's Adam Levine is. I could cite plenty more examples, but you get my point.
6. There’s such a thing as being too young to know about a certain artist.
Like when an unsuspecting concertgoer told a 21-year-old musician friend of mine that she’s too young to be influenced by Led Zeppelin. I rubbed his face in the fact that I dressed up as Roy Orbison for Halloween in 1997, when I was merely 16 years old. He became visibly uncomfortable; needless to say, I was pleased. There really is a definite double standard at play when it comes to this philosophy of being “too young.” After all, young musicians all the time say that they’re influenced by The Beatles or The Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan, and that’s perfectly acceptable. But Led Zeppelin? Nope, sorry.
The truth is that you simply have no way of knowing what people have been exposed to in their youth. Last year I saw ‘50s pop pianist Roger Williams on the public television special Moments To Remember, explaining how amazed he gets when young people tell him they know his music. I can only quote from memory, but he said that he responds, “You’re too young to even know who I am! After all, I am 81 years old!” The young people then reply, “Oh, no, my grandparents played your records all the time when I was growing up.” As of the taping of that program, he still got floored by such statements.
7. “I hate today’s music! That is, if you can even CALL it music! I just don’t get how anybody can like this crap!”
Music touches people on a profoundly personal level. There's just no arguing matters of taste. If you don’t like something, don’t listen to it. If it’s a song you can’t get away from no matter how you try, learn to tune it out. And if you miss the way music used to sound, listen to older music.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my soapbox is caving in.
Copyright © 2007 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Tribute 2006
In the year 2006, we lost many important music industry figures. I’d like to pay tribute to three legends in particular, as these were the people whose deaths had the most impact on me personally.
Earlier this week we said goodbye to Ahmet Ertegun, a name that should ring a bell if you saw the movie Ray. The son of a diplomat, he was born in Turkey but lived in various countries as a child before his family settled down in the United States. He fell in love with the music he heard around the world, especially jazz and blues. He co-founded Atlantic Records in 1947; the label quickly became one of the top independent labels in America, known for its commitment to quality and fair treatment of its artists. Atlantic’s reign as a mighty indie ended when it merged with Warner in 1967—indeed it is now part of Warner Music Group—but the label retained a distinct identity for years to come. Ertegun remained active in music until his death, always proving himself to have a rare combination of attributes: a genuine love and understanding of music, a personal connection to the artists he worked with, and a keen business sense. Atlantic and its affiliates had much success with rock artists such as Cream, The Rascals, Led Zeppelin, Crosby Stills & Nash, and (for a period) The Rolling Stones, as well as pop artists like Bobby Darin, Sonny & Cher, The Bee Gees, ABBA, and Bette Midler. However, Atlantic made its fortune on rhythm & blues and never abandoned its R&B roots. Atlantic even manufactured and distributed most of the classic output of Stax Records, the famous home of Memphis soul. Atlantic’s R&B treasure trove has been heavily anthologized on CD; if you’re looking for a place to start, Warner’s budget three-disc set Atlantic Gold offers 75 selections of this sort for a surprisingly low price and with decent sound quality if somewhat lackluster annotation. A look at the list of luminaries who scored hits on Atlantic and related labels reads like a Who’s Who of R&B: Ray Charles, Joe Turner, Ruth Brown, Chuck Willis, The Coasters, The Drifters, Ben E. King, Solomon Burke, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Archie Bell & The Drells, and Brook Benton; Memphis soulsters Booker T. & The MG’s, Rufus Thomas and his daughter Carla, Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, and Eddie Floyd; and non-Gamble & Huff Philly soul from the likes of The Spinners, Blue Magic, and Major Harris. (Atlantic also gave Gamble & Huff some of their early breaks by sending Archie Bell & The Drells and Wilson Pickett to cut records in Philly.)
While I’m on the subject of Philly soul, let me segue into a tribute to native Philadelphian Richard “Ritchie” Barrett. A singer, songwriter, producer, arranger, session musician, and choreographer, Barrett made a name for himself in the New York doo-wop scene of the 1950s. Associating with hustling independent record moguls George Goldner and Morris Levy, Barrett discovered and worked with top-notch doo-wop groups such as Little Anthony & The Imperials, The Cleftones, Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers, and The Chantels. The latter outfit ushered in the “girl group” boom and Barrett oversaw their run of wonderful hits, including “He’s Gone,” “Maybe,” and “Look In My Eyes.” Barrett also worked with The Isley Brothers early in their career. He did not have much success as a recording artist, but his records were highly influential. In 1958, he revived the pop oldie “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”; while his version languished in the bottom of the hit parade, it most likely inspired The Platters’ chart-topping rendition later that year. Barrett’s 1962 record of “Some Other Guy”—released on Atlantic, no less—was not a commercial success, but it became a favorite cover item among British beat bands, including The Beatles, whose ripping version can be found on their Live at the BBC set. After the doo-wop era faded, Barrett returned to Philadelphia and played an important role in the creation of Philly soul. In 1964 he wrote and produced the prescient “Get Out (And Let Me Cry),” an early effort by Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes which had most of the basic elements of the Philly sound and became an R&B hit. He then spent some time at Philadelphia’s Swan Records, where label president Bernie Binnick insisted that Barrett copy the Motown sound. Though he did comply to an extent, some of his productions from this era are truly fine examples of early Philly soul, as opposed to mock Motown. These include Sheila Ferguson’s “Heartbroken Memories,” Eddie Carlton’s “Misery,” and John Leach’s “Put That Woman Down”; check out Ace/Kent’s compilation Swan’s Soul Sides to hear these and more. Barrett also managed and produced The Three Degrees, who eventually included Ferguson. They scored some of Swan’s last chart hits before doing even better at Morris Levy’s Roulette label and then topping the charts on Philadelphia International. Interestingly, while Barrett was at Swan Records he wrote songs with Leon Huff, who along with Kenny Gamble would form Philadelphia International Records and produce The Three Degrees there. Sadly, there has been much bad blood between Barrett and Gamble, to the extent that Barrett declined to be interviewed for John A. Jackson’s Philly soul tome A House On Fire, thus denying himself his place in the history of Philly soul. (Barrett was quoted extensively in Tony Cummings' 1975 work The Sound of Philadelphia, but that book is something of a rarity today and much of the information presented therein is inaccurate.)
Finally, the death that hit me the hardest: that of ‘60s pop star Gene Pitney. Even though I grew up in the ‘90s, Pitney was one of my favorite singers growing up, one of a handful of artists who really defined my teenage years. In my early 20s (I’m 25 now) I would still occasionally raid my sizable collection of Gene Pitney CDs and just go Pitney crazy. The guy had staying power. He could sing almost any style of music and sing it well. He could convey almost any emotion, yet he was best with songs that were either sad or angry. They were the perfect vehicles for his pained, wailing tenor. He remained active until his death and was always ready to put on a show. A concert he did for public television while in his late 50s showed that he'd retained more of his vocal power than many of his contemporaries. In it, he also did the finest version of Robbie Williams' "Angels" that I've ever heard. (Were you thinking that Jessica Simpson's version was my favorite?) In addition to his impressive vocal talent, Pitney also possessed songwriting ability. Intriguingly, he usually wrote songs for other artists—Rick Nelson's "Hello Mary Lou," Bobby Vee's "Rubber Ball" (under a pseudonym), The Crystals' anthemic "He's A Rebel"—while as a singer he tended to expose up-and-coming songwriters. These included such now-famous names as Burt Bacharach & Hal David ("The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," "Only Love Can Break A Heart," "True Love Never Runs Smooth," "24 Hours From Tulsa"), Randy Newman ("Just One Smile," "Nobody Needs Your Love"), and even Jagger & Richards. In fact, Pitney's recording of the latter pair's "That Girl Belongs To Yesterday" was Mick and Keith's first composition to become an American hit. No, it was not originally recorded by the Stones; they gave the song to him while he was on his first UK tour. Indeed, once he became popular in the UK, he was always more appreciated there than here. The media frenzy in his home state of Connecticut notwithstanding, Pitney’s death went largely unnoticed in the US, while in the UK it received due attention. Maybe his passing would have grabbed more headlines in the US if he'd been a braggart. "I had 24 hits on the Hot 100! I'm in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! I was the first rock 'n' roll singer to perform at the Academy Awards! I survived the British Invasion! I was a superstar in Italy!" But no. He wasn't the type. He was a reserved, quiet fellow, at times reclusive. Yet, at least during his later years, he made himself accessible to his fans. He encouraged us to e-mail him; he chatted with us on message boards; he sent us Christmas cards if we joined his fan club; he even contributed a regular column to his fan club's newsletter. He didn't need to brag to us because we knew he was special. Apparently, a lot of people didn't. If you were one of those people, I hope you now realize how much the music world lost when it lost Gene Pitney. And Ahmet Ertegun. And Richard Barrett. Talents like these don’t come along every day, and we should all be thankful that they got a chance to make a mark on this world before their time ran out.
Copyright © 2006 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
[June 9, 2007 note: Since writing this piece, I have found much evidence to demonstrate that Atlantic's treatment of its artists was not always as "fair" as I made it out to be here. I learned of Atlantic's "fairness" from Both Sides Now's Atlantic story, yet I later discovered that several Atlantic artists were indeed cheated on royalties. This was addressed in public television's American Masters special about Ahmet Ertegun ("Atlantic Records: The House That Ahmet Built"). According to the program, Ertegun took responsiblity for cheating those artists when the story broke in the 1980s and the whole affair inspired him to start the Rhythm and Blues Foundation.]
Earlier this week we said goodbye to Ahmet Ertegun, a name that should ring a bell if you saw the movie Ray. The son of a diplomat, he was born in Turkey but lived in various countries as a child before his family settled down in the United States. He fell in love with the music he heard around the world, especially jazz and blues. He co-founded Atlantic Records in 1947; the label quickly became one of the top independent labels in America, known for its commitment to quality and fair treatment of its artists. Atlantic’s reign as a mighty indie ended when it merged with Warner in 1967—indeed it is now part of Warner Music Group—but the label retained a distinct identity for years to come. Ertegun remained active in music until his death, always proving himself to have a rare combination of attributes: a genuine love and understanding of music, a personal connection to the artists he worked with, and a keen business sense. Atlantic and its affiliates had much success with rock artists such as Cream, The Rascals, Led Zeppelin, Crosby Stills & Nash, and (for a period) The Rolling Stones, as well as pop artists like Bobby Darin, Sonny & Cher, The Bee Gees, ABBA, and Bette Midler. However, Atlantic made its fortune on rhythm & blues and never abandoned its R&B roots. Atlantic even manufactured and distributed most of the classic output of Stax Records, the famous home of Memphis soul. Atlantic’s R&B treasure trove has been heavily anthologized on CD; if you’re looking for a place to start, Warner’s budget three-disc set Atlantic Gold offers 75 selections of this sort for a surprisingly low price and with decent sound quality if somewhat lackluster annotation. A look at the list of luminaries who scored hits on Atlantic and related labels reads like a Who’s Who of R&B: Ray Charles, Joe Turner, Ruth Brown, Chuck Willis, The Coasters, The Drifters, Ben E. King, Solomon Burke, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Archie Bell & The Drells, and Brook Benton; Memphis soulsters Booker T. & The MG’s, Rufus Thomas and his daughter Carla, Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, and Eddie Floyd; and non-Gamble & Huff Philly soul from the likes of The Spinners, Blue Magic, and Major Harris. (Atlantic also gave Gamble & Huff some of their early breaks by sending Archie Bell & The Drells and Wilson Pickett to cut records in Philly.)
While I’m on the subject of Philly soul, let me segue into a tribute to native Philadelphian Richard “Ritchie” Barrett. A singer, songwriter, producer, arranger, session musician, and choreographer, Barrett made a name for himself in the New York doo-wop scene of the 1950s. Associating with hustling independent record moguls George Goldner and Morris Levy, Barrett discovered and worked with top-notch doo-wop groups such as Little Anthony & The Imperials, The Cleftones, Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers, and The Chantels. The latter outfit ushered in the “girl group” boom and Barrett oversaw their run of wonderful hits, including “He’s Gone,” “Maybe,” and “Look In My Eyes.” Barrett also worked with The Isley Brothers early in their career. He did not have much success as a recording artist, but his records were highly influential. In 1958, he revived the pop oldie “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”; while his version languished in the bottom of the hit parade, it most likely inspired The Platters’ chart-topping rendition later that year. Barrett’s 1962 record of “Some Other Guy”—released on Atlantic, no less—was not a commercial success, but it became a favorite cover item among British beat bands, including The Beatles, whose ripping version can be found on their Live at the BBC set. After the doo-wop era faded, Barrett returned to Philadelphia and played an important role in the creation of Philly soul. In 1964 he wrote and produced the prescient “Get Out (And Let Me Cry),” an early effort by Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes which had most of the basic elements of the Philly sound and became an R&B hit. He then spent some time at Philadelphia’s Swan Records, where label president Bernie Binnick insisted that Barrett copy the Motown sound. Though he did comply to an extent, some of his productions from this era are truly fine examples of early Philly soul, as opposed to mock Motown. These include Sheila Ferguson’s “Heartbroken Memories,” Eddie Carlton’s “Misery,” and John Leach’s “Put That Woman Down”; check out Ace/Kent’s compilation Swan’s Soul Sides to hear these and more. Barrett also managed and produced The Three Degrees, who eventually included Ferguson. They scored some of Swan’s last chart hits before doing even better at Morris Levy’s Roulette label and then topping the charts on Philadelphia International. Interestingly, while Barrett was at Swan Records he wrote songs with Leon Huff, who along with Kenny Gamble would form Philadelphia International Records and produce The Three Degrees there. Sadly, there has been much bad blood between Barrett and Gamble, to the extent that Barrett declined to be interviewed for John A. Jackson’s Philly soul tome A House On Fire, thus denying himself his place in the history of Philly soul. (Barrett was quoted extensively in Tony Cummings' 1975 work The Sound of Philadelphia, but that book is something of a rarity today and much of the information presented therein is inaccurate.)
Finally, the death that hit me the hardest: that of ‘60s pop star Gene Pitney. Even though I grew up in the ‘90s, Pitney was one of my favorite singers growing up, one of a handful of artists who really defined my teenage years. In my early 20s (I’m 25 now) I would still occasionally raid my sizable collection of Gene Pitney CDs and just go Pitney crazy. The guy had staying power. He could sing almost any style of music and sing it well. He could convey almost any emotion, yet he was best with songs that were either sad or angry. They were the perfect vehicles for his pained, wailing tenor. He remained active until his death and was always ready to put on a show. A concert he did for public television while in his late 50s showed that he'd retained more of his vocal power than many of his contemporaries. In it, he also did the finest version of Robbie Williams' "Angels" that I've ever heard. (Were you thinking that Jessica Simpson's version was my favorite?) In addition to his impressive vocal talent, Pitney also possessed songwriting ability. Intriguingly, he usually wrote songs for other artists—Rick Nelson's "Hello Mary Lou," Bobby Vee's "Rubber Ball" (under a pseudonym), The Crystals' anthemic "He's A Rebel"—while as a singer he tended to expose up-and-coming songwriters. These included such now-famous names as Burt Bacharach & Hal David ("The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," "Only Love Can Break A Heart," "True Love Never Runs Smooth," "24 Hours From Tulsa"), Randy Newman ("Just One Smile," "Nobody Needs Your Love"), and even Jagger & Richards. In fact, Pitney's recording of the latter pair's "That Girl Belongs To Yesterday" was Mick and Keith's first composition to become an American hit. No, it was not originally recorded by the Stones; they gave the song to him while he was on his first UK tour. Indeed, once he became popular in the UK, he was always more appreciated there than here. The media frenzy in his home state of Connecticut notwithstanding, Pitney’s death went largely unnoticed in the US, while in the UK it received due attention. Maybe his passing would have grabbed more headlines in the US if he'd been a braggart. "I had 24 hits on the Hot 100! I'm in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! I was the first rock 'n' roll singer to perform at the Academy Awards! I survived the British Invasion! I was a superstar in Italy!" But no. He wasn't the type. He was a reserved, quiet fellow, at times reclusive. Yet, at least during his later years, he made himself accessible to his fans. He encouraged us to e-mail him; he chatted with us on message boards; he sent us Christmas cards if we joined his fan club; he even contributed a regular column to his fan club's newsletter. He didn't need to brag to us because we knew he was special. Apparently, a lot of people didn't. If you were one of those people, I hope you now realize how much the music world lost when it lost Gene Pitney. And Ahmet Ertegun. And Richard Barrett. Talents like these don’t come along every day, and we should all be thankful that they got a chance to make a mark on this world before their time ran out.
Copyright © 2006 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
[June 9, 2007 note: Since writing this piece, I have found much evidence to demonstrate that Atlantic's treatment of its artists was not always as "fair" as I made it out to be here. I learned of Atlantic's "fairness" from Both Sides Now's Atlantic story, yet I later discovered that several Atlantic artists were indeed cheated on royalties. This was addressed in public television's American Masters special about Ahmet Ertegun ("Atlantic Records: The House That Ahmet Built"). According to the program, Ertegun took responsiblity for cheating those artists when the story broke in the 1980s and the whole affair inspired him to start the Rhythm and Blues Foundation.]
Monday, December 4, 2006
Book Review: A House On Fire
John A. Jackson’s A House On Fire: The Rise and Fall of Philadelphia Soul (Oxford University Press, 2004) is a highly convenient source of information on Philly soul, the style that was to the ‘70s what the Motown sound had been to the ‘60s. Jackson builds his story around the three men at the top of the Philly soul heap—Kenny Gamble, Leon Huff, and Thom Bell—but in the process he sheds much light on numerous lesser-known, but pivotal, figures in the history of the subgenre. These include arranger/producer Bobby Martin, record executive Ron Alexenburg, and jack-of-all-trades Weldon McDougal. Jackson also delves deeply into the personalities and backgrounds of the recording artists, session musicians, songwriters, engineers, and Gamble/Huff subordinates who made the Philly sound possible. His narrative follows a fairly straightforward, linear chronology. A survey of major trends in R&B and the shape of Philadelphian society in the ‘40s and ‘50s leads to that fruitful-yet-frustrating early ‘60s phase in which Gamble, Huff, and Bell struggled to make names for themselves. Things heat up in the mid-to-late ‘60s as the Philly sound begins to blossom and find favor with the public. By the early ‘70s, Gamble and Huff form Philadelphia International Records and Thom Bell is flying high as an independent producer with intriguing ties to many of Philly’s power players. The Philly sound influences everything from rock to disco as the decade wears on, and the Philly soul train appears to be unstoppable—until 1979. Then, it’s a slow and painful decline, especially for Philadelphia International, which survives into the 21st century despite being a mere shell of its former self.
Jackson clearly did a massive amount of research for this project, drawing from a vast selection of books, articles, CD liner notes, and original interviews. He was unable to conduct any of the latter with Gamble or Huff, but this is not surprising. Huff was never the most talkative individual, and Gamble is known for being picky about whom he’ll tell his story to. Fortunately, Jackson collected so many Gamble and Huff quotes from other sources that the reader still gets a good idea of the masters’ perspectives. His detailed storytelling exposes a seemingly endless stream of secrets, rivalries, recording techniques, and mentalities, making well-worn chestnuts like “Love Train,” “You Make Me Feel Brand New,” “You’ll Never Find (Another Love Like Mine),” and “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” seem new again. He also makes it extremely clear that Philly soul was the result of collaborations that transcended obvious boundaries. Soul may be considered a black music style, but several of the Philly sound’s key studio musicians, songwriters, producers, and arrangers were white. The names most associated with Philly soul belong to men, but Jackson shows that many women played highly important parts in the story as well. Most importantly, what do The Spinners, Lou Rawls, Jerry Butler, The O’Jays, and Archie Bell & The Drells have in common? They all made exemplary Philly soul records, yet they were not from Philadelphia. What mattered was that they cut those records in the City of Brotherly Love.
For all the good things that can be said about A House On Fire, the excitement of reading it comes from the actual information presented and not from Jackson’s clumsy, limp writing. On page 181, he writes, “In the end, CBS refused to meet Gamble’s demands for control of future recordings by Philadelphia International, although an agreement whereby CBS continued to market and distribute Philadelphia International’s records was worked out. But beginning in 1976, the control of all future Philadelphia International master recordings, as well as the publishing rights to them, reverted to Gamble and Huff.” The message of those sentences comes through eventually, but only after navigating Jackson’s confusing wording. A House On Fire is full of such passages.
More troubling is Jackson’s imbalanced treatment of racism. A book about soul music should devote considerable attention to this subject, but it’s hard to see any method to the way Jackson handles the issue. As a means of setting up his narrative, he opens the book with the story of a race riot! Is this a tome about racism or music? Pages 20-21 contain this infamous tirade: “When you leave [downtown Philadelphia] traveling east over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, headed for the morass of urban mismanagement, decay, and corruption known as Camden, New Jersey, the first building of significance to the left that you see is Riverfront State Prison. Riverfront is an apt metaphor for Camden, itself a prison to the overwhelming majority of poor blacks and other minorities who live there. Leon Huff […] was one of those fated Camden residents. But Huff […] successfully made it over the wall.” Read this paragraph after checking out the rather whitebread photo of the author on the cover jacket, and Jackson is begging to be tagged a “guilty white liberal”—a stance that is quite patronizing, even insulting, in this context. He lays on the race issue with a trowel until around page 100, when the story enters the early ‘70s. Then he cools off for the rest of the book, simply placing the music in a larger social context, discussing racism when relevant but not structuring his story around it. This strikes me as a misstep. I have many relatives who made the simple mistake of being black in Philadelphia during the ‘70s (in case you’re wondering, my ancestry is mixed). Any one of them can tell you that Philadelphia was a hotbed of extreme racial tension at the time, with the notoriously racist former police chief Frank Rizzo serving as the city’s polarizing mayor. If Jackson was going to focus on racism during Philly soul’s formative years, why not devote more attention to the issue when discussing the subgenre’s peak period? It’s not surprising that Thom Bell was discriminated against as a musician seeking high-profile work in the early ‘60s. It is surprising that a black-run, Philly-based music empire experienced so much prosperity during the tumultuous Rizzo era.
Finally, Jackson commits a few errors that are just plain stupid. For example, he describes The Intrigues’ “In A Moment,” one of the watershed moments in Philly soul, as a “falsetto-led ballad” (90). Apparently he’s hearing-impaired; “In A Moment” is a fast, funky dance track with about three seconds of falsetto in all. But Jackson’s known for such goofs; no one who read his American Bandstand: Dick Clark and the Making of a Rock ‘n’ Roll Empire (Oxford University Press, 1997) can forget his deadpanned assertion that The Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love” came from their Sgt. Pepper album. Still, A House On Fire is worth reading, if only because it provides so much insight into a style of music that we have come to take for granted and compiles so much data into one concise source. Unfortunately, I must offer the same words of caution that I offer readers of most writings on the history of popular music: take what you read with several grains of salt.
Copyright © 2006 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
Jackson clearly did a massive amount of research for this project, drawing from a vast selection of books, articles, CD liner notes, and original interviews. He was unable to conduct any of the latter with Gamble or Huff, but this is not surprising. Huff was never the most talkative individual, and Gamble is known for being picky about whom he’ll tell his story to. Fortunately, Jackson collected so many Gamble and Huff quotes from other sources that the reader still gets a good idea of the masters’ perspectives. His detailed storytelling exposes a seemingly endless stream of secrets, rivalries, recording techniques, and mentalities, making well-worn chestnuts like “Love Train,” “You Make Me Feel Brand New,” “You’ll Never Find (Another Love Like Mine),” and “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” seem new again. He also makes it extremely clear that Philly soul was the result of collaborations that transcended obvious boundaries. Soul may be considered a black music style, but several of the Philly sound’s key studio musicians, songwriters, producers, and arrangers were white. The names most associated with Philly soul belong to men, but Jackson shows that many women played highly important parts in the story as well. Most importantly, what do The Spinners, Lou Rawls, Jerry Butler, The O’Jays, and Archie Bell & The Drells have in common? They all made exemplary Philly soul records, yet they were not from Philadelphia. What mattered was that they cut those records in the City of Brotherly Love.
For all the good things that can be said about A House On Fire, the excitement of reading it comes from the actual information presented and not from Jackson’s clumsy, limp writing. On page 181, he writes, “In the end, CBS refused to meet Gamble’s demands for control of future recordings by Philadelphia International, although an agreement whereby CBS continued to market and distribute Philadelphia International’s records was worked out. But beginning in 1976, the control of all future Philadelphia International master recordings, as well as the publishing rights to them, reverted to Gamble and Huff.” The message of those sentences comes through eventually, but only after navigating Jackson’s confusing wording. A House On Fire is full of such passages.
More troubling is Jackson’s imbalanced treatment of racism. A book about soul music should devote considerable attention to this subject, but it’s hard to see any method to the way Jackson handles the issue. As a means of setting up his narrative, he opens the book with the story of a race riot! Is this a tome about racism or music? Pages 20-21 contain this infamous tirade: “When you leave [downtown Philadelphia] traveling east over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, headed for the morass of urban mismanagement, decay, and corruption known as Camden, New Jersey, the first building of significance to the left that you see is Riverfront State Prison. Riverfront is an apt metaphor for Camden, itself a prison to the overwhelming majority of poor blacks and other minorities who live there. Leon Huff […] was one of those fated Camden residents. But Huff […] successfully made it over the wall.” Read this paragraph after checking out the rather whitebread photo of the author on the cover jacket, and Jackson is begging to be tagged a “guilty white liberal”—a stance that is quite patronizing, even insulting, in this context. He lays on the race issue with a trowel until around page 100, when the story enters the early ‘70s. Then he cools off for the rest of the book, simply placing the music in a larger social context, discussing racism when relevant but not structuring his story around it. This strikes me as a misstep. I have many relatives who made the simple mistake of being black in Philadelphia during the ‘70s (in case you’re wondering, my ancestry is mixed). Any one of them can tell you that Philadelphia was a hotbed of extreme racial tension at the time, with the notoriously racist former police chief Frank Rizzo serving as the city’s polarizing mayor. If Jackson was going to focus on racism during Philly soul’s formative years, why not devote more attention to the issue when discussing the subgenre’s peak period? It’s not surprising that Thom Bell was discriminated against as a musician seeking high-profile work in the early ‘60s. It is surprising that a black-run, Philly-based music empire experienced so much prosperity during the tumultuous Rizzo era.
Finally, Jackson commits a few errors that are just plain stupid. For example, he describes The Intrigues’ “In A Moment,” one of the watershed moments in Philly soul, as a “falsetto-led ballad” (90). Apparently he’s hearing-impaired; “In A Moment” is a fast, funky dance track with about three seconds of falsetto in all. But Jackson’s known for such goofs; no one who read his American Bandstand: Dick Clark and the Making of a Rock ‘n’ Roll Empire (Oxford University Press, 1997) can forget his deadpanned assertion that The Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love” came from their Sgt. Pepper album. Still, A House On Fire is worth reading, if only because it provides so much insight into a style of music that we have come to take for granted and compiles so much data into one concise source. Unfortunately, I must offer the same words of caution that I offer readers of most writings on the history of popular music: take what you read with several grains of salt.
Copyright © 2006 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
What IS that song?
As you probably know, there is an ever-growing trend to use songs in commercials. Let me reword that: there is an ever-growing trend to use pre-existing songs in commercials. Sure, we've long had advertising jingles written for specific companies, but more and more of what we hear on commercials these days was already completed long before the ads were conceived. This is a mixed blessing. On one hand, it gives exposure to songs that may otherwise go unheard or forgotten. On the other hand, unless the commercial identifies the song and artist somewhere, it leaves you wondering what you're hearing. This is especially annoying in those spots whose songs are so prominent that you're likely to forget what's actually being advertised! So, here are some recent television commercials and the songs that you hear on them:
Tide, "the difference between smelling like a mom and smelling like a woman": Any self-respecting '60s pop fan already knows which song is featured in this spot, but I must say I find such use disheartening. Sometimes a song will become associated with a product, tagline, or cause that no fan of the song would want to associate it with. Perhaps you remember the Johnny Cash estate's decision NOT to allow "Ring of Fire" to be used in a commercial for hemorrhoid medication, a rare example of good taste prevailing. But here we have a mother with a baby, the infant's head over mom's shoulder in the vomit position, and then we see the same woman romancing with her sweetheart. A female voiceover artist delivers the first half of the idiotic tagline (isn't a mom by definition a woman?) over the baby scene and the second half over the romance scene. What ties it all together? The Ronettes' 1963 classic "Be My Baby," one of the greatest hits in the recorded catalogue of legendary producer Phil Spector! I'll never be able to enjoy that song again.
Vonage: You know it. That "woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo" song. It's "Woo Hoo" by The 5.6.7.8's, an all-female Japanese rock 'n' roll band that has been around for 20 years. A slower, more rockabilly-oriented version of this, er, song was an American hit in 1959 for a Virginia group called The Rock-A-Teens. To confuse matters, a Georgia band formed in the '90s named itself The Rock*A*Teens [sic] after you-know-who, and also recorded a version of you-know-what.
Freestyle (diabetic testing device): "Everybody's Gonna Be Happy" by The Kinks. This was a moderate hit in the UK in 1965, and in the US it was the B-side of another moderate hit, "Who'll Be The Next In Line." Strange how The Kinks' songs seem to be popular among advertisers. Several years ago, a Jolly Rancher commercial prominently featured "All Day And All Of The Night" ("I believe that you and me last forever"), and a Hyundai commercial used a cover of "Set Me Free."
Ford, Warriors In Pink: This spot aired all throughout October, aka Breast Cancer Awareness month, and given that information you can figure out what a "Warrior In Pink" is. The song is "I Run For Life" by Melissa Etheridge. Dating from 2005, it's a reflection of her own battle with the all-too-common disease.
Planters Nuts: Just once and never again, I saw an ad with a song that went, "You can knock on my door anytime you're passing by..." I was amazed because that number is rather obscure, yet I recognized it immediately. It's "Step Inside" by The Hollies, a late '60s album cut from their requisite "Let's make the next Pet Sounds or Sgt. Pepper" phase.
Target: There have been many tunes used in Target commercials, but I'll zero in on "Shape Of Things To Come" by Max Frost & The Troopers. Who? A studio group cobbled together to record this opus for the late '60s teen exploitation flick Wild In The Streets. The song was written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, who wrote so many other hits that I can only tell you to Google their names and prepare to be amazed.
Monster.com: "Do Ya" by ELO (Electric Light Orchestra, for the uninitiated). Birmingham, England's The Move had much success in the UK and "on the continent" during the late '60s and early '70s, but as The Move began to grow stale, they evolved into ELO. "Do Ya" is the one song both bands have in common: The Move's version was a throwaway B-side that somehow managed to crack the US charts in 1972, becoming their only American hit! Maybe that inspired ELO to redo it a few years later.
Dell: Dark, dramatic pan shots of a laptop. Sexy, intriguing, mysterious. And what do you hear? Ominous guitar riffs, screeches of "Ohhhh, yeah!" and a wailing harmonica. It's "You're Gonna Miss Me" by The 13th Floor Elevators, one of the all-time classic psychedelic hits by one of the most legendary bands ever to come from Texas. Like all long-haired rock musicians in Texas in the '60s, the Elevators were persecuted like crazy. That story is well-documented elsewhere, so I won't attempt to recapture it here.
Medium (TV series): "Walking With A Ghost" by Tegan and Sara, the finest Canadian identical twin lesbian act in the business! I also like The White Stripes' cover version, in which Jack sings "Please don't exist" instead of "Please don't insist."
Copyright © 2006 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
Tide, "the difference between smelling like a mom and smelling like a woman": Any self-respecting '60s pop fan already knows which song is featured in this spot, but I must say I find such use disheartening. Sometimes a song will become associated with a product, tagline, or cause that no fan of the song would want to associate it with. Perhaps you remember the Johnny Cash estate's decision NOT to allow "Ring of Fire" to be used in a commercial for hemorrhoid medication, a rare example of good taste prevailing. But here we have a mother with a baby, the infant's head over mom's shoulder in the vomit position, and then we see the same woman romancing with her sweetheart. A female voiceover artist delivers the first half of the idiotic tagline (isn't a mom by definition a woman?) over the baby scene and the second half over the romance scene. What ties it all together? The Ronettes' 1963 classic "Be My Baby," one of the greatest hits in the recorded catalogue of legendary producer Phil Spector! I'll never be able to enjoy that song again.
Vonage: You know it. That "woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo" song. It's "Woo Hoo" by The 5.6.7.8's, an all-female Japanese rock 'n' roll band that has been around for 20 years. A slower, more rockabilly-oriented version of this, er, song was an American hit in 1959 for a Virginia group called The Rock-A-Teens. To confuse matters, a Georgia band formed in the '90s named itself The Rock*A*Teens [sic] after you-know-who, and also recorded a version of you-know-what.
Freestyle (diabetic testing device): "Everybody's Gonna Be Happy" by The Kinks. This was a moderate hit in the UK in 1965, and in the US it was the B-side of another moderate hit, "Who'll Be The Next In Line." Strange how The Kinks' songs seem to be popular among advertisers. Several years ago, a Jolly Rancher commercial prominently featured "All Day And All Of The Night" ("I believe that you and me last forever"), and a Hyundai commercial used a cover of "Set Me Free."
Ford, Warriors In Pink: This spot aired all throughout October, aka Breast Cancer Awareness month, and given that information you can figure out what a "Warrior In Pink" is. The song is "I Run For Life" by Melissa Etheridge. Dating from 2005, it's a reflection of her own battle with the all-too-common disease.
Planters Nuts: Just once and never again, I saw an ad with a song that went, "You can knock on my door anytime you're passing by..." I was amazed because that number is rather obscure, yet I recognized it immediately. It's "Step Inside" by The Hollies, a late '60s album cut from their requisite "Let's make the next Pet Sounds or Sgt. Pepper" phase.
Target: There have been many tunes used in Target commercials, but I'll zero in on "Shape Of Things To Come" by Max Frost & The Troopers. Who? A studio group cobbled together to record this opus for the late '60s teen exploitation flick Wild In The Streets. The song was written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, who wrote so many other hits that I can only tell you to Google their names and prepare to be amazed.
Monster.com: "Do Ya" by ELO (Electric Light Orchestra, for the uninitiated). Birmingham, England's The Move had much success in the UK and "on the continent" during the late '60s and early '70s, but as The Move began to grow stale, they evolved into ELO. "Do Ya" is the one song both bands have in common: The Move's version was a throwaway B-side that somehow managed to crack the US charts in 1972, becoming their only American hit! Maybe that inspired ELO to redo it a few years later.
Dell: Dark, dramatic pan shots of a laptop. Sexy, intriguing, mysterious. And what do you hear? Ominous guitar riffs, screeches of "Ohhhh, yeah!" and a wailing harmonica. It's "You're Gonna Miss Me" by The 13th Floor Elevators, one of the all-time classic psychedelic hits by one of the most legendary bands ever to come from Texas. Like all long-haired rock musicians in Texas in the '60s, the Elevators were persecuted like crazy. That story is well-documented elsewhere, so I won't attempt to recapture it here.
Medium (TV series): "Walking With A Ghost" by Tegan and Sara, the finest Canadian identical twin lesbian act in the business! I also like The White Stripes' cover version, in which Jack sings "Please don't exist" instead of "Please don't insist."
Copyright © 2006 S.J. Dibai. All rights reserved.
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