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Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
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Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
The 1960s music scene had it all: folkies, mods, electric bluesmen, surf singers, soul scorchers, R&B belters, psychedelic hipsters…and one falsetto-voiced ukelele player who went by the name of Tiny Tim. No course on the decade's pop culture would be complete without a mention of this eccentric celebrity.
When it comes to the mating habits of female rock singers, today's divas ain't got nothin' on Carly Simon. Taylor Swift may date and dump a dime-a-dozen variety of pop-boys simply to fuel her songwriting, but it's mere kid stuff compared to Carly's affairs. By the time she released her second album, "No Secrets," in late 1972, she had liaised with Cat Stevens, Mick Jagger, Kris Kristofferson and future husband James Taylor - all bona fide artists. Many were hot for the sexy Simon, but the burning question of her career remains unanswered: just who IS she referring to in her career-defining song, "You're So Vain," which topped the charts 42 years ago this month?
The year is 1967 and you're just out of high school. You're burning your draft card, experimenting with various herbs, and licking acid from blotter papers while listening to "Eight Miles High" and "Light My Fire." And psychedelia-loving hipster that you are, you're ready to pull your long hair out every time the opening organ chords of "I'm a Believer" came piping from the nearest radio. Forty-eight years ago this week, The Monkees' single "I'm a Believer" was getting more airplay than any other song in the country. Thanks to 1,051,280 advance orders, it went gold within two days of its November 1966 release and spent seven weeks at the top of the charts, making it the biggest selling record of 1967. You couldn't escape the sound. Free-form FM was still in its infancy, and most of the nation's gargantuan cars came equipped with only an AM dial. So, even the most musically savvy flower children couldn't escape the pop hits of the day - many of which they considered bubblegum music. But I was a mere child of 7, and I absolutely loved both bubblegum and pop hits!
Picture this: Good-girl Betty meets motorcycle bad-boy Jimmy at a candy store, where he's obviously buying candy cigarettes. He turns around and smiles at her. You get the picture? (Who knew that candy stores were such popular pick-up joints in 1964?) But is she really going out with him? Yep, the next thing you know, she takes Jimmy's ring, wraps her legs 'round those velvet rims, and straps her hands 'cross his engines (no, wait; that's another song about an outcast luring a chick to his Harley). Anyway, Daddy tells her to ditch the biker. Alas, the sad, misunderstood Jimmy drives off into the sunset to crash and burn. Oh, the drama, the poignancy, the sound effects! How we all longed for a Jimmy who would self-destruct for us! Yes, folks, I'm talking about the Shangri-Las' doomed-love classic "Leader of the Pack," which hit the #1 spot on the Billboard charts 50 years ago today.
"Hang on, Snoopy, Snoopy hang on." At least that's what I thought the band was singing until I bought that seminal 1965 single by The McCoys, and realized that Snoopy was actually Sloopy. But who the heck was THAT? Obviously not a beagle who sat on a doghouse wearing a WWI flying helmet.