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This record changed my life.

I was ten years old. How many of us, at around that age, heard new music because of a friend’s access to his or her older sibling’s records? Summertime — a friend said, “You ever hear U.S. Bonds?” And then (to quote Lou Reed), my mind split open.

I grew up in a pre-rock family. As a little kid, I lived in the world of my mother’s music: classical and pop from the 1920s through the 1950s. I latched onto this set of RCA Victor albums she had called “60 Years of Music America Loved Best” (1959-1960). This was my musical education. The collection was eclectic, to say the least:

• Marian Anderson, “Go Down Moses”
• Vladimir Horowitz, “Variations on Themes from Carmen”
• Paul Whiteman, “Whispering”
• Perry Como, “Prisoner of Love”
• Jeanette MacDonald & Nelson Eddy, “Indian Love Call”
• Fritz Kreisler, “Liebesfreud”
• Harry Belafonte, “Day-O”

…and many more (Duke Ellington, Eddy Arnold, Jascha Heifetz, Artie Shaw, Mario Lanza, Toscanini, Rachmaninoff, etc.…)

Despite the obvious omissions (blues? R&B? bebop?), it was a good introduction to 20th-century music for a mid-century kid. None of it prepared me for “Quarter to Three”. The bits of rock ’n’ roll I had heard (probably via a babysitter listening to local top 40 station WORC), the ones that made an impression, tended to be novelties: “Purple People Eater,” or “Witch Doctor,” or “On the Telephone” (Stan Boreson’s parody of Jimmie Rodgers’ “Honeycomb”). Little kids used to love that stuff. Maybe a little Fats Domino or Elvis in the mix. “Quarter to Three” revealed a whole other world. Gary and crew weren’t just doing a song about a wild party, the song was the party. A party happening at the bottom of the sea, from the sound of it. There may have been more instruments involved in the session, but the only audible ones were saxes and some kind of distorted-beyond-recognition drum thing.… Continue reading

A chugga-chugga motion like a railroad train, now!

There’s an element in early ’60s pop songs – not only non-ironic optimism, but also something in the drive of the music itself – maybe the same drive that would enable an entire nation to pursue crazy goals like putting a man on the moon… and a quality in the vocals – just enough youth, just enough street – I’d swear, you can almost hear Little Eva popping her chewing gum, and I love her for that. Combine all this with the BIG SOUND they got from recording real people on analog equipment with very limited track counts, and you have something that was “of its time,” and will never come again.

When I say drive, it’s not just about tempo, it’s the feel, the attitude, the sound itself. Hear it (and feel it!) in Little Eva’s “The Loco-Motion” (1962 – my favorite dance record ever), “Tell Him” (1962) by The Exciters, “Let Me In” (1962) by The Sensations, The Crystals’ “Da Doo Ron Ron” (1963), Bobby Lewis’ “Tossin’ and Turnin'” (1961), Dee Dee Sharp’s records, and in so much of Motown, but especially “Dancing in the Streets,” Martha & the Vandellas’ 1964 coded anthem for the civil rights movement. The beat is propulsive, and the songs seem to breathe – again, it’s something built into not only the musicians’ performance, but the recorded sound itself. (Dance music of today uses heavy sidechain compression to evoke a hyped-up version of this breathing effect.)

All these records came out of northern urban centers (and L.A.); worth noting that southern soul tended to be a bit more laid-back — the famous behind-the-beat feel of Stax drummer Al Jackson Jr. vs. the pumping pop-soul “Sound of Young America.”

Some of these songs were covered in later years, but the drive was lost (and youth was no longer youth, if that makes any sense).… Continue reading

Possibly my favorite musical period is the early sixties, just before The Beatles, say, 1960-63. The Golden Age of AM Radio. Because I hold my favorite songs from that time in such high esteem, I rarely like latter-day covers (most lose all the magic that was there; others are just putrid, like Grand Funk Railroad’s sledgehammer pummeling of “The Loco-Motion”). But for the first time in a while I heard the 1969 version of “Baby It’s You” by Smith – and damn, it’s good! They’ve turned it into a totally different song, but it’s almost as compelling as The Shirelles’ 1962 original. Shirley Owens’ plaintive vocal is a diary entry, set to throbbing reverb and echoplexed guitar (arranged by Burt Bachrach!); Gayle McCormick’s aching but self-assured delivery is face-to-face, over a punchy rhythm section and tough B-3 (produced by Del Shannon!). Lust and longing, served up perfectly for two very different times.

play Smith’s version on YouTube