parlando

seventies survival, update seven

Posted on August 19th, 2007 by Scraps.
Categories: Music, Songs, 70s Survival.

I am listening to the top 1000 singles of the 1970s (as determined by Billboard) on shuffle play on my mp3 player, and gradually weeding out the songs I don't want to hear anymore.

Ringo Starr, You're Sixteen
Nice kazoo break. An inoffensive song, though it could probably get Ringo thrown off Livejournal and arrested in several states these days. It's a fine old tune, fun to sing, but it's already come up four or five times in the shuffle, and that's enough. Joe Regan plays this in piano bars, and it disturbs Velma that I always want to rhyme "You're my baby, you're my pet" with "You're Disco Tex and the Sexolettes." I just think "Disco Tex and the Sexolettes" is funny.

Neil Sedaka, Breakin' Up Is Hard to Do
Nothing against Sedaka, but the attempt to transform this bouncy pop song into a sensitive ballad doesn't work for me, mostly because it calls too much attention to the Brill Building lyric quality, a frothy, teenage style that was fine for the material but isn't weighty enough for this kind of treatment. It's true that most modern ballad lyrics aren't any better, but in this case it's hard not to think of the original while the remake is playing.

Glen Campbell, It's Only Make Believe
Campbell, a good songwriter, does a faithful cover of an old Conway Twitty chestnut. Campbell proves himself a serviceable singer, but does nothing with the song to show that it needed a new interpretation. Poor line: "No one will ever know / Just how much I love you so." It's just there for a rhyme, but "so" is "how much I love you". Look, I'm a copy editor, okay?

Stylistics, Betcha By Golly Wow
The title suggests a Little Richard-style raveup, but it's a pretty Philadelphia soul ballad (by Thom Bell and Linda Creed). The title, at the beginning of the chorus, stands out as a prime piece of silliness, and it's hard for me to believe that it didn't make people laugh in 1972. The extra beats between lines in the chorus are a nice touch in an otherwise ordinary song, even though one of those pauses is after the title line and draws additional attention to it.

Kris Kristofferson, Why Me
I already hold "Me and Bobby McGee" against Kristofferson, which is probably not fair since it's Janis Joplin I can't stand. But I'd never heard this song that I can remember, it was a huge hit in 1973, and it's awful. (And I'm sorry to discover that it's been covered by the great Kelly Hogan.) It begins "Why me, Lord?", and it immediately becomes clear that it's a pious inversion of the usual self-pity, Kristofferson instead asking God why Kristofferson should have it so good. It's a good twist of a stock phrase, the kind that's at the heart of many great songs. And some awful ones. As an attitude toward God, it still has the disadvantage of cheekily directing questions at the Lord, albeit in the service of humility; one can't escape the sense that the petitioner is pleased with himself beneath the humility, not just for the cleverness of his approach but for being humble. Lord, witness my humility! And the execution, unfortunately, isn't as clever as the idea. "Tell me Lord, What did I ever do that was worth loving you" -- I imagine the Lord bridling here -- "for the kindness you've shown?" Now, this question makes no sense: "that was worth loving you for" is not any kind of substitute for "to deserve". And "kindness" is a paltry word -- a human word -- to apply to the gifts of God. O Lord, how kind you are! "So help me Jesus, my soul's in your hands" is also funny in a way Kristofferson doesn't intend. "If you think there's a way I can try to repay all I've taken from you". . . Do I need to go on? But what about the music! you ask. Don't worry, you aren't missing anything.

Donny Osmond, The Twelfth of Never
There were more Osmond hits than most people remember, inasmuch as only a couple of them have been played since the first year they came out. This was originally a Johnny Mathis hit, and he can sell just about any piece of tripe; Donny Osmond, without his brothers, just sounds nasal. Not content with building a song on an unreconstructed cliche, songwriters Livingston and Webster found a way to make it stupider; the song ends with one of the great thudding anticlimaxes of pop music history: "Until the twelfth of never, and that's a long, long time." So pleased was everyone with this line, they had Osmond repeat "that's a long, long time", drawing it out, with a little catch in his voice on the first "long". I think people need to hear this: 47 seconds of "The Twelfth of Never"

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