Hall of Sound

Feb 16

R.I.P. Shadow Morton (1940-2013)

Is it unusual to mourn the death of someone you didn’t know existed until you read his obituary? That’s certainly the case with me and George Francis “Shadow” Morton, the songwriter and producer who passed away Thursday at the age of 71.

But then, of course, I did know he existed. I knew he existed through the immortal genius of The Shangri-Las, for whom he penned a number of classic hits, including “Leader of the Pack,” “Remember (Walking in the Sand),” and my personal favorite, “Give Him a Great Big Kiss.” I knew he existed through the mythic and haunting power of those songs, which offered a thrilling and dangerous counterpoint to the more saccharine pop tunes of the era. Yes, I’ve always known he existed; I just didn’t know his name or anything about him. His work told me everything I needed to know.

His obituary in the The New York Times tells the story of a man who lived up to the mysterious nature of his songs—he called himself Shadow, after all—but it doesn’t go into too much detail, perhaps because not much is actually known.

Or perhaps the Times editorial board heeded the advice of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance: “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

Feb 13

Lesley Gore - You Don’t Own Me

Remember that video that came out during the last election cycle? You know, the one with Lena Dunham and Carrie Brownstein and Miranda July and lots of other cool women? This is the song from that video.

Leave it to a 17-year-old Jersey girl to deliver one of the most resounding feminist anthems in pop music history. The song’s title and its lyrics cannot be any less ambiguous; “You Don’t Own Me” is a powerful, melodic, and concise assertion of agency by Lesley Gore. “Don’t tell me what to do / Don’t tell me what to say / And please, when I go out with you / Don’t put me on display.” Damn! Why aren’t there more songs like this one?

When this song resurfaced last fall, I humbly admit it was unfamiliar to me. I grew up on oldies radio—Cool 96.7, never forget—but this song never made the rounds on that format. Why was that the case? I wondered. It was a hit, after all, making it to number two on the Billboard charts. Surely, there had to have been some external forces at work.

I noticed the song’s release date: December 1963. A month after the assassination of President Kennedy. The narrative we’ve come to accept is the nation went into deep mourning and The Beatles arrived and saved us from our collective grief. So perhaps, then, “You Don’t Own Me” is a case of bad timing. It fell right in the middle of that nether-period when, clearly, nobody listened to music, or went to the movies, or did anything but sit and grieve and wait for four mop-headed Liverpudlians to make everything okay again. If we perpetuate these sketchy narratives long enough, they eventually become self-fulfilling.

Or maybe this isn’t the case, and it instead comes down to our culture’s unwillingness, both then and now, to accept such a straightforwardly feminist song into the mainstream.

One thing’s for sure: the song’s catchiness is not the issue.

Dec 1

The Kingston Trio

So it’s been ages since I’ve posted here, but what better than a shameless plug to get back into the swing of things? The Kingston Trio, of which I represent one third, has just released its debut album! So check it out and tell everyone you’ve ever encountered about it, why don’t ya?

Apr 4

Meet the Mets

Well, baseball is upon us yet again. For Mets fans, it’s that time of year when we delude ourselves into thinking our team has a shot, a delusion that will be inevitably shattered by the merciless baseball gods over the next six months. Yes, it’s a sorry lot in life we have. This year, however, is special; it’s the 50th anniversary of the Mets’ inaugural (and record-breaking) 1962 season. And, naturally, it’s also the semicentennial of the debut of their lovably corny theme song.

While it will never live in the annals of great pop songs from the early ’60s, “Meet the Mets” nevertheless holds a special place in the heart of every Amazin’s fan. From the Polo Grounds to Shea to Citi Field, the familiar incantation of “Meet the Mets, meet the Mets / Step right up and greet the Mets” has been a team mainstay since the beginning. And, despite all of its silliness, when you’re in your seat with your hot dog and beer, you can’t help but feel it and sing along.

“Meet the Mets” was written by the songwriting duo of Bill Katz and Ruth Roberts, who had a previous baseball-related hit in 1956 with “I Love Mickey”, a tribute to Mickey Mantle. The song is so wonderfully anachronistic, from its Tin Pan Alley-style arrangement, which must’ve seemed decades outdated even in 1962, to lyrics like “Bring your kiddies, bring your wife!” It doesn’t care that sweeping social change is right around the corner; “Meet the Mets” is content to exist in the vacuum of its urban-pastoral idyll.

It was modernized in 1984, nixing the line about bringing your kiddies and wife. But I still prefer the original. I don’t know why; I’m progressively inclined and ought to prefer the version that doesn’t espouse such ancient gender roles. But I don’t. It’s probably because, in my view, baseball is supposed to be a little anachronistic. If you think too hard, it doesn’t make sense that we’re still playing this 19th century agrarian game in the modern age. But then it probably never made sense. The same goes for “Meet the Mets”; the best way to enjoy it is not to think about it.

So here’s to the desperate hope that accompanies each new baseball season. As always, Let’s Go Mets!

Mar 22

charismaticæ: Revolution Girl Style Now!

charismaticae:

I met Rhonda over copier conversation at my internship. She’s an assistant to one of the higher-ups at BBC Worldwide. Safe to say, I nearly melted on the spot. Here’s the interview, also featured in Your Mag Emerson:

Rhonda Simmonds is known in various guises as the frontwoman of…

I’m reblogging this because riot grrrl bands and ’60s girl groups share a common bond in my heart. And because Charis Talcott is really cool.

The Shirelles - Baby It’s You

Thanks to Wikipedia’s “On this day…” section—the greatest source for inspiration on the internet—I’ve learned that today is the 49th anniversary of the release of The Beatles’ first album, Please Please Me. Now, obviously, The Beatles are off-limits according to this blog’s parameters. However, songs they covered are not. And, fortunate for me, they covered a lot of great songs, including this one—one of the six covers on their debut LP.

I’m a little embarrassed it took me this long to get to a Burt Bacharach-penned tune, but so it goes. He co-wrote “Baby It’s You” with Mack David, the older brother of his more well-known collaborator, Hal David—I’m not sure how that happened, but I’d like to imagine it involved a family drama filled with Shakespearean intrigue. Anyway, I’m getting off track.

This song is pretty sweet. It has great production that still feels fresh and an arrangement that’s consistently engaging. The palm-muted electric guitar is used primarily as a percussion instrument, a method Bacharach would employ throughout his collaborations with Dionne Warwick (see: “Walk On By”) and Dusty Springfield (see: “I Just Don’t Know What to Do with Myself”), among others. The background vocals are simultaneously ethereal and warm behind Shirley Owens, who takes the lead splendidly. And my love of the organ will forgive its rather cheesy use here in the instrumental break.

Lyrically, “Baby It’s You” is nothing special, but that doesn’t bother me. Generally speaking, if the music is good enough, I’m satisfied.

The Beatles are the best rock and roll band there will ever be. Everyone knows that. But too often we fail to recognize those without whom they couldn’t have existed. What made The Beatles so great, in my mind, is that they saw the beauty in songs like these—songs that critics, convinced pop music was in a down era, wrote off as frivolous. Without Bacharach, Carole King, Arthur Alexander, Ellie Greenwich, Smokey Robinson, and so many others, there would be no Lennon & McCartney.

Mar 19

Bruce Channel - Hey! Baby

In my previous post, I lamented the recent trend of journalists celebrating the 50th anniversaries of artists who emerged in 1962 but wouldn’t rise to prominence for another few years, while ignoring the music that was actually in its prime that year. I felt rather cantankerous for invoking such a sentiment—a feeling I dread—so, as an attempt to practice what I preach, I thought I’d write about the song that was #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 exactly 50 years ago. So here we are.

Having found new life as a marching band staple and an unlikely club hit, “Hey! Baby” is a testament to the staying power of early ’60s pop (and to the greatness of old fashioned punctuation). At just under two and a half minutes, it’s short, simple and infectiously catchy—everything a pop song should be. It has a pretty sweet harmonica part, too.

When my high school marching band played “Hey! Baby”, I resented my fellow bandmates for knowing only the dance club incarnation of the song. (You know, the one with the “Uh! Ah!”) I looked down upon modern music with scorn while selfishly hording the music of my parents’ generation. Yes, I was one of those “They don’t even play instruments!”-types. Fortunately, I’ve grown up a bit since then and have come to accept that anything that keeps the music I love alive, whether it’s a cover or a techno remix or a sample in a hip hop track, should be admired. After all, that’s what makes music a living, breathing entity.

So now, at age 22, while I still prefer the original to the cover, I don’t seethe with rage when the latter comes on at a baseball game or a party; rather, I sing along. On good days, I’ll even “Uh! Ah!” with the best of ‘em.

Mar 17

On female songwriters and the savior fallacy

My friend showed me an article in The New Republic the other day that attempted to debunk the myth that pop music was saved in the early ’60s by the emergence of a number of artists, in particular Bob Dylan. It immediately grabbed my attention, as debunking that myth is the primary purpose of this blog.

The article’s author, David Hajdu, notes that this year is the 50th anniversary of the release of Dylan’s eponymous debut. It’s true that we’re a culture that reveres milestone anniversaries, but in recognizing this one, are we revering the album itself or simply the birth of an artist?

Recorded in November 1961 and released five months later, the record had little impact north of Washington Square Park and was soon remaindered for sale in dime-store budget bins.

Dylan wouldn’t achieve broad artistic or cultural significance until the following year, so I have to question those who’ve used this opportunity to celebrate his largely forgotten, unimpressive debut, especially when considering the wealth of pop music—The Shirelles, The Crystals, The Four Seasons, Little Eva—that was in its prime in 1962.

Hajdu is right in shedding light on this unfortunate bias in music journalism. However, in debunking one fallacy, he inadvertently contributes to another: the notion that female songwriters had little impact on the pop music landscape of the early ’60s.

The perspective of [the songs of the early ’60s] was not that of a child; it was specifically that of a female. The songs were geared to girls and young women, though most often written by men and centered, generally, on themes of fealty to men.

Nearly every corner of mass culture has been historically dominated by the patriarchy, so it’s easy to make this mistake. But in reality, the early ’60s was one of the most creatively fruitful periods for female songwriters in the history of pop music.

The prolific output of the “big three”—Carole King, Ellie Greenwich and Cynthia Weil—is evidence enough to lay to rest this misconception. Their collective body of work makes up a significant chunk of the top hits from the era. That doesn’t even take into account the up-and-coming songwriters of the time, like Tina Turner and Janis Ian, who would leave indelible marks of their own. Moreover, the content of these women’s songs most often dealt with female empowerment and agency, not “fealty to men” as Hajdu suggests. Tunes like “Keep Your Hands Off My Baby” and “He’s Sure the Boy I Love”, while essentially heteronormative, are written with active language and depict women making their own decisions and not submitting to social pressure. (See also: my take on “He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)”, which I hold to be a thoroughly feminist song.)

So while there have always been more male songwriters than female in mainstream pop, to argue that women had little impact on the creative side of music in the early ’60s is to simply ignore the facts. Turn on your local oldies station right now, and there’s a damn good chance the song currently playing was written by a lady.

As always, fuck the patriarchy.

Cynthia Weil (left) and Carole King with some dude

Mar 1

John Hollahan

showstyle:

Live at Teh Olive Garden 2/25/12

This is my best friend John Hollahan playing his first live show.

This show was part of the #bestweekendever, complete with feminist slumber party, feminist zinefest, and Vaginas Occupy Wall Street. I was driving home and stopped at Ben’s and he made me a quesadilla because he is a charmer, and then we went to the show with KT. John started at exactly 9, as promised. I am very proud of him.

Dan is in CA, Becky is at school, Will is away, and John really wants to hear this, so you’re welcome in advance for the fast turnaround.

Here’s a recording of a show I played! Check it out!

Feb 6

The Angels/The Chiffons - He’s So Fine

I had a recent Twitter rant concerning the multiple versions of this song—the cover by The Angels embedded in this post, and the original by The Chiffons—but I feel like it behooves me to expand upon it in a format that permits more than 140 characters.

“He’s So Fine” is best known as the answer to the trivia question, “What song was George Harrison accused of plagiarizing in his own ‘My Sweet Lord’?”, which is a shame, because it’s a great song on its own. It’s also a shame because the cover by The Angles is, to my mind, a more egregious act of plagiarism in that it literally steals the backing track—including the backup vocals—from The Chiffons’ version. Perhaps I’m being naïve, but that strikes me as wrong.

I’m not disputing the legality of what The Angels did—this is not Bob Loblaw’s Law Blog—but merely questioning the artistic integrity of the band, their producers, or whomever it was that decided to take The Chiffons’ hit single, erase the lead vocal track, slap a new one on and release it under a different moniker. That’s too easy. Change the arrangement a little, add a horn section, do something! Eh, who am I kidding?

If it’s any consolation, after The Angels released their most successful single later that year, “My Boyfriend’s Back”, The Chiffons recorded a version of their own, and actually took the time to record a new backing track. And guess what? Their version is way better. So I guess there was some semblance of justice in early ’60s pop music.

Unless—and this is probably the case—it’s just my revisionist history. But it’s all in good fun, right?