Posts Tagged ‘Four Tops’

Saturday Single No. 151

June 1, 2022

Originally posted October 3, 2009

While wandering around Facebook the other evening, I ran across one of those quizzes that pop up now and then on the site. My cousin Mark had tried his hand at a music trivia quiz that asked who sang what song in the year 1970. I forget how many of the ten songs in the quiz he’d paired with the right performer, but he’d done pretty well, he said in the attached note, for someone who was born in the mid-1960s.

I clicked the link and headed into the quiz to see how I could do. The year 1970 holds a prime place in my days of listening to Top 40. I began that exploration – as I’ve noted before – in the late summer and autumn of 1969. I started shifting away from Top 40 and into album rock during my college years, which began in the fall of 1971. That leaves 1970 as the one year during which I was really listening to Top 40 radio all year long. Given that, I would have been disappointed in myself if I’d missed a question in the quiz. I didn’t. And as I headed out of the quiz page back to Facebook, I thought that some kind of look at 1970 would be a good idea for a Saturday post.

So this morning, I pulled out the Billboard Hot 100 for the week ending October 3, 1970, the chart from thirty-nine years ago today, and I thought I’d sort through the Top 40 to see which record showed the most movement from the chart of a week earlier.

Before starting, it might be good to look at the Top Ten from that date:

“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Diana Ross“
Lookin’ Out My Back Door/Long As I Can See The Light” by Creedence Clearwater Revival
“Candida” by Dawn
“Cracklin’ Rosie” by Neil Diamond
“Julie, Do Ya Love Me” by Bobby Sherman
“I’ll Be There” by the Jackson 5
“(I Know I’m) Losing You” by Rare Earth
“Snowbird” by Anne Murray
“War” by Edwin Starr
“All Right Now” by Free

That’s a pretty decent Top Ten, though over the years – for me at least – neither the Diana Ross nor the Anne Murray single has aged well. We’ll get back to a few of those as we look at how the Top 40 shifted.

Four records shifted up four places from the week before. Candi Staton’s cover of “Stand By Your Man” made it into the chart, moving from No. 44 to No. 40. “El Condor Pasa” by Simon & Garfunkel went from No. 38 to No. 34. Grand Funk Railroad’s first hit, “Closer to Home,” went from No. 31 to No. 27. And the afore-mentioned “Candida” moved from No. 7 to No. 3.

Two records shifted five spots. Glenn Campbell’s “It’s Only Make Believe” rose from No. 37 to No. 32, and Tom Jones’ “I (Who Have Nothing)” dropped from No. 14 to No. 19. And two records moved up six spaces: “Somebody’s Been Sleeping” by 100 Proof Aged In Soul went from No. 43 to No. 36 while “Out In The Country” by Three Dog Night moved from No. 30 to No. 24.

Three records fell seven spots: Edwin Starr’s “War” dropped from No. 2 to No. 9, Clarence Carter’s “Patches” went from No. 4 to No. 11, and “25 or 6 to 4” by Chicago fell from No. 10 to No. 17.

When I do one of these chart-movement posts (and I’ve only done a few, admittedly), this is about the spot where things start to narrow down. It seems – without doing any research at all – that not that many songs move more than seven spots during the same week. Well, the week ending October 3, 1970, was the week that would wreck that theory. A total of thirteen records – almost one-third of the Top 40 – shifted more than seven spots thirty-nine years ago this week.

One record moved eight spots. That was “Look What They’ve Done To My Song Ma” by the New Seekers, which rose from No. 33 to No. 25. Shifting nine places was “It’s A Shame” by the Spinners, rising from No. 24 to No. 15. And moving up ten places was James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain,” which rose from No. 40 to No. 30.

Two records rose eleven places: “Express Yourself” by Charles Wright and the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band went from No. 25 to No. 14, and “Do What You Wanna Do” by Five Flights Up (the only record in this Top 40 I’ve never heard, as far as I know) entered the Top 40 with a leap, jumping from No. 50 to No. 39.

The Jackson 5’s “I’ll Be There” moved up thirteen places, from No. 19 to No. 6; also moving thirteen spots was “Rubber Duckie” by Ernie, which dropped from No. 16 to No. 29. The Carpenter’s “(They Long To Be) Close To You” dropped fourteen places, from No. 17 to No. 31, “Spill the Wine” by Eric Burdon and War fell fifteen spots from No. 21 to No. 36, and Bread’s “Make It With You” dropped eighteen places from No. 20 to No. 38.

That leaves three records still to mention, records that shifted more than eighteen places in one week, and looking ahead, I see trouble. The week’s champion, with an amazing leap of twenty-four spots from No. 42 to No. 18, is the Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun.” But that song’s story – it began as a bank commercial – was told superbly just more than a week ago by the Half-Hearted Dude, and I see no reason to post the record, as lovely as it is, here. The second-largest shift of the week ending October 3, 1970, was a tumble of twenty places, from No. 15 to No. 35, for Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime,” a tune that’s long ago worn out its welcome in my ears.

So there must be compromise, which leads us to the week’s third-place mover, a record by the Four Tops that moved nineteen spots, from No. 39 to No. 20. It’s not one of the records that come immediately to mind when one thinks of the Four Tops, but it did all right, spending ten weeks in the Top 40 and peaking at No. 11. Nor does it sound like the Four Tops of the mid-1960s, the years of “Standing In The Shadows Of Love” and “Bernadette.” Instead, it’s got a lilting, almost Latin sound, one that reminded me at least a little bit of Malo (“Suavecito”) and El Chicano (“Viva Tirado, Part I” and “Tell Her She’s Lovely”).

So with all that in mind, here’s “Still Water (Love)” by the Four Tops, today’s Saturday Single.

On Summers Gone

May 13, 2022

Originally posted July 31, 2009

I’ve been trying for an hour now to write something meaningful about how it felt to be a kid in summertime. And I’m not sure that what I remember is really how it felt. There is a tendency, a temptation, to put a nostalgic and meaningful glaze on all the memories and perceptions of childhood and youth (a temptation I frequently find difficult to resist), as if the only purpose of being a child in the 1960s was to provide memories for us in later life.

That’s not how it was, of course. We didn’t run through our summer days constantly thinking how fine our memories of those days would someday be. Oh, there were times, special days, when the thought came: I hope I remember this forever. And I do remember thinking that at times, but sadly and ironically, I don’t recall in any of those cases what it was that I hoped to remember.

I do remember games: We boys – with a few girls, now and then – would play workup baseball in the street during the day and into the late afternoon. After dinner, as the evening approached, all of us – boys and girls alike – would play games like “Kick the Can,” a hide-and-seek type game. We played across a territory that ranged widely around the neighborhood, with some yards in play and others – generally those of folks who had no kids – not in play. That would go on until the very last light of the day was fading and the streetlights came on. Then, in ones and twos, kids would make their ways home.

At other times, we – generally Rick and I – might make our way to the grocery store half a block away on Fifth Avenue. We’d dither over the best investment for our pennies and nickels, maybe buy some Dubble Bubble or Sour Grapes bubble gum. Or maybe we’d buy one of those balsa wood gliders that – with luck – flew loops in the backyard air without getting stuck in the trees.

We were unconcerned, for the most part, with the events and realities of life beyond Kilian Boulevard and the southeast side. I, being who I’ve always been, followed the news at least a little, but the accounts I read of the civil rights movement, and of war and unrest in a place called Vietnam, didn’t touch us. Not then, in the first half of the 1960s.

We got older, and one by one, the older kids quit playing the summer games we’d always played. And one summer, sometime in the latter half of the 1960s, Rick and I were the older kids, and the younger kids were playing their own games. With a figurative shrug, we went off and did something else.

Many things about those summertimes are hazy, with specific memories replaced by generalities. But one thing I know: As I made my way from being one of the little kids to being one of the older kids, I was aware of summertime music. I remember how it seemed like the volume was turned up during those three months. Even in the very early years, I heard music during summer that I evidently chose to ignore the rest of the year.

Some Summertime Hits From Motown
 “Heat Wave” by Martha & The Vandellas, Gordy 7022 (No. 4, 1963)
“Smiling Faces Sometimes” by the Undisputed Truth, Gordy 7108 (No. 3, 1971)
“Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” by the Temptations, Gordy 7054 (No. 13, 1966)
“I Was Made To Love Her” by Stevie Wonder, Tamla 54151 (No. 2, 1967)
“It’s the Same Old Song” by the Four Tops, Motown 1081 (No. 5, 1965)
 “I’ll Keep Holding On” by the Marvelettes, Tamla 54116 (No. 34, 1965)
“You Beat Me To The Punch” by Mary Wells, Motown 1032 (No. 9, 1962)
“The Love You Save” by the Jackson 5, Motown 116 (No. 1, 1970)
“Where Did Our Love Go” by the Supremes, Motown 1051 (No. 1, 1964)
“The Tracks Of My Tears” by the Miracles, Tamla 54118 (No. 16, 1965)

When selecting from the massive Motown/Gordy/Tamla catalog, it’s comforting to have a few rules in place. Given my framework here of choosing only songs that entered the Top 40 in June, July or August, as well as choosing one song per performer/group, I thought I did pretty well.

Many of these, of course, came out in the years before I paid much attention to rock, pop or R&B, but Motown’s best work – like a lot of the great music of the time – was part of the environment. Wherever we went, there were radios, and wherever radios were, you heard the tunes of the time. I’m not saying I heard all of these when they were on the radio regularly, but I know I heard most of them, and for today, that’s close enough.

‘When’

January 25, 2018

So we return after a long break to Journalism 101, our exploration of tunes that include in their titles the five W’s and one H of reporting: who, what, where, when, why, and how. Today’s subject is “when,” and the RealPlayer brings us an initial harvest of 761 tracks.

We’ll winnow that down, of course. We lose a few tracks with “whenever” in their titles, and a 1998 track from the band When In Rome goes by the wayside. So do several albums (except for some title tracks) including Glenn Yarbrough’s For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her, Trisha Yearwood’s The Song Remembers When, Rory Block’s When A Woman Gets The Blues, Snow Patrol’s When It’s All Over We Still Have to Clear Up, Traffic’s When The Eagle Flies, the Sutherland Brothers’ When The Night Comes Down, Carolina Story’s When The River Met The Sea, John Mellencamp’s Whenever We Wanted, and When Harry Met Sally by Harry Connick, Jr.

There’s plenty left, of course, and we’re going to do things a little differently today, picking one track from each of four decades of the 1900s, starting with the 1940s. (Just for the record, the earliest recorded track that popped up was “When a ’Gator Holler, Folks Say It’s A Sign Of Rain” recorded by Margaret Johnson with the Black & Blue Trio in 1926, while the most recent track offered by the RealPlayer was “When I Saw Your Face” from Soul Of A Woman, Sharon Jones’ final album with the Dap-Kings.

The mystically romantic “Where Or When” was introduced in the 1937 musical Babes In Arms, created by the team of Richard Rodgers and Lorenzo Hart and quickly became a popular standard. The website Second Hand Songs lists 225 versions of the tune, and it’s apparent that there are more versions uncounted, as we’re listening today to the 1942 cover of the song by Guy Lombardo & His Royal Canadians, which SHS does not cite. Lombardo’s version of “Where Or When” is a little stiff, perhaps, but the buttery smooth reeds still sound nice, as does the similarly smooth trombone solo. The Decca release went to No. 19 in 1943, according to David A. Jasen’s book A Century Of American Popular Music.

So we move into the 1950s and find a charming gem: “When You Dance” by the Turbans, a black doo-wop group from Philadelphia. Released on the Herald label in 1955, the record went to No. 33 on the Billboard Hot 100 and to No. 3 on the magazine’s R&B chart. Six years later, the Turbans re-recorded the song for a release on the Parkway label, but the record only bubbled under at No. 114. The original version showed up in 2005 on the stellar two-CD set The Only Doo-Wop Collection You’ll Ever Need on the Shout Factory label.

If ever a No. 18 hit can be called a forgotten record, it might be “Shake Me, Wake Me (When It’s Over)” by the Four Tops. The 1966 single has everything you might want in a Four Tops joint, from an arresting tale and a strong lead vocal to the work of Motown’s Funk Brothers. But I think it tends to get lost among the stellar singles the group released on either side: “I Can’t Help Myself” and “It’s The Same Old Song” charted in 1965, “Reach Out I’ll Be There” hit later in 1966, and 1967 brought “Standing In The Shadows Of Love” and “Bernadette.” Small wonder that “Shake Me, Wake Me,” as good as it is, stands in shadows itself. As I noted, it peaked in the Hot 100 at No. 18, and it went to No. 5 on the R&B chart.

The short-lived British band McGuinness Flint managed one appearance in the Billboard Hot 100 when “When I’m Dead And Gone” went to No. 47 in early 1971, and as I listen today to that track and to “Malt and Barley Blues,” a 1971 Capitol promo single, I wish I had a lot more from the band on the digital shelves. I have Lo and Behold, a 1972 album by the group’s successor band, Coulson, Dean, McGuinness and Flint, and that’s fine, but I suppose I’m going to have to shell out some cash for the original group’s 1970 album. The group’s tangled history is best left to Wikipedia. (Oddly enough, I also have on the digital shelves a cover of “When I’m Dead And Gone” by an American artist named Bob Summers that pretty much copies the original arrangement, slows the song down just a titch, and misses the magic entirely.)

Chart Digging For Covers: June 20, 1970

June 20, 2013

As often as I’ve messed around over the past six years with Billboard Hot 100 charts from one week or another, and as often as I’ve looked for cover versions of familiar records, I’ve never taken the time to look at one specific Hot 100 for cover versions. So I don’t know if the Hot 100 from June 20, 1970 – forty-three years ago today – was typical or atypical.

I do know that it was a mother lode for those seeking covers of familiar records.

The riches begin at No. 25, where we find “It’s All In The Game” by the Four Tops. It’s a cover of the song that was No. 1 for Tommy Edwards in 1958 and that’s also charted for Cliff Richard (No. 25, 1964) and Isaac Hayes (No. 80, 1980) and bubbled under for Jackie DeShannon (No. 110, 1967). It’s also the only hit ever written by a vice-president of the United States, as it uses a tune that was called “Melody in A Major” when it was written in 1912 by Charles Gates Dawes, who later served as vice-president from 1925 to 1929. The Tops’ version of “It’s All In The Game” peaked at No. 24.

From there, we head to No. 28, where Wilson Pickett’s two-sided entry “Sugar, Sugar/ Cole, Cooke & Redding” sat on its way to No. 25. The B-side is a tribute to Nat “King” Cole, Sam Cooke and Otis Redding, but it’s “Sugar, Sugar” on the A-side that matters today, as it’s Pickett’s cover of the Archies’ hit – No. 1 for four weeks – from 1969.

Earlier in 1970, Brook Benton had a No. 4 hit with “A Rainy Night In Georgia” and had followed that up with a cover of Frank Sinatra’s No. 27 hit from 1969, “My Way,” which stalled at No. 72. Benton’s next single came from the catalog of a fellow Southerner, as he turned to “Don’t It Make You Want To Go Home” by Joe South. The original version of the tune, credited to Joe South & The Believers, had gone to No. 41 in 1969; Benton’s version would peak at No. 45.

Maybe Van Morrison’s “Into The Mystic” didn’t carry in 1970 the mythic weight it seems to have today, or maybe that weight is just something I perceive because “Into The Mystic” is a song that is dear to both the Texas Gal and me, but it seems to me that it took a lot of guts for Johnny Rivers to cover Morrison’s tune so soon after Morrison released it on Moondance in February 1970. Rivers’ version of the classic tune – the only version ever to hit the Hot 100 – was at No. 58 forty years ago today, having peaked earlier at No. 51. As the tune played this morning, I took a look at the credits for Rivers’ Slim Slo Slider, the album that includes “Into The Mystic,” and I learned that the gorgeous saxophone solo comes from Jim Horn, the piano work is from the late Larry Knechtel, and the drum work is from either Hal Blaine or Ronnie Tutt. I’d bet on Blaine.

According to the website Second Hand Songs, Neil Young released his single of “Cinnamon Girl” in April 1969, just ahead of the May release of the album Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere, but the single didn’t enter the Hot 100 until more than a year later. It entered the chart forty-three years ago today, starting out at No. 95. Its presence on the chart was spurred, I would imagine, by the fact that the Gentrys’ very similar cover of “Cinnamon Girl” was in its tenth week on the chart, sitting at No. 63 after peaking at No. 52. Young’s version of the song didn’t do quite as well, peaking at No. 55.

The gorgeous song “Maybe” first showed up on the charts in 1958, when the Chantels’ version went to No. 15. Since that time, charting (or near-charting) versions had come from the Shangri-Las (No. 91, 1965), the Chantels (No. 116 with a 1969 re-release on a new label) and Janis Joplin (No. 110 in 1970). Next came the Three Degrees, adding a spoken soap opera introduction to “Maybe” that – from the vantage point of more than forty years – doesn’t seem to work. Listeners back then seemed to like it, though; the record, which was sitting at No. 69 on June 20, eventually peaked at No. 29.

Well, that’s six, and that’s more enough for today. But I could go on for a while yet, as that chart from June 20, 1970, also included Merry Clayton’s cover of the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter,” Peggy Lipton’s take on Donovan’s “Wear Your Love Like Heaven,” Rare Earth’s cover of the Temptations’ “Get Ready,” the Assembled Multitude’s version of the Who’s “Overture from ‘Tommy’,” Paul Davis’ cover of the Jarmels’ “A Little Bit of Soap,” Ike & Tina Turner & The Ikettes’ take on Sly & The Family Stone’s “I Want To Take You Higher,” Vic Dana’s version of Neil Diamond’s “Red, Red Wine,” Johnny Taylor’s cover of Jimmy Hughes’ “Steal Away,” the Satisfactions’ version of Dinah Washington’s “This Bitter Earth,” and Miguel Rios’ reworking of the final movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 into “A Song of Joy.” And I probably missed some.

And In This Corner . . .

March 16, 2012

Originally posted March 9, 2009

The Texas Gal and I stopped by the St. Cloud Armory for a little while Saturday afternoon and took in the craft show; there’s one in the armory every three months or so. We spent a pleasant time looking at jewelry and needlework, sampling jams and candies and checking out the paintings, some of them on old barn wood.

I hadn’t been in the armory for years, maybe since a Boy Scout event in the early 1970s. And I recalled the first time I was there: For an evening of All-Star Wrestling sometime in early 1965, I think.

It was when I was about eleven that I began watching the wrestling matches on television, shown here in St. Cloud on WTCN, the Twin Cities television station where I would have my internship in the mid-1970s. Professional wrestling in those days was very unlike today’s massive attraction. There were no gaudy costumes, no huge arenas, no huge paydays. But there were similarities: There were good guys to cheer, bad guys to boo, results were seemingly predetermined and the crowds loved it.

The prime good guy here was Vern Gagne (who, sadly, has been in the news lately), and the bad guys were The Crusher and The Bruiser, with all of them well-known in the Upper Midwest. And most Saturday evenings for a year or so, I’d park myself in the living room and watch an hour of wrestling. There were plenty of other wrestlers on the weekly show, too, guys working their way up the ladder of the American Wrestling Association, which Gagne happened to own.

And one of the regulars on the show was a wrestler with the unlikely name of Robert Goulet. I have to think it’s his birth name; I can’t imagine that anyone in the early 1960s looking for a wrestling stage name would have purposefully selected the name of Robert Goulet. I dunno. Maybe. But anyway, I saw Goulet wrestle on television a few times and I thought he was okay. He won, and he wasn’t all that flashy. (Even back then, flashy stuff didn’t impress me; I wanted to see guys go out and do their jobs and then sit down. The fact that the matches themselves were stagecraft – and I think I knew that, even then – didn’t bother me. Stagecraft was performance; flash was, well, flash.)

And one evening, the announcer on television said that Goulet would be wrestling the next week in St. Cloud. I pestered Dad for a while, and he agreed to take me. So the next Saturday evening, Dad and I went to the St. Cloud Armory and sat in folding chairs to watch some wrestling. I’m not sure how many matches we saw, but folks cheered and booed as the wrestlers did their work. I don’t recall anymore if anyone got thrown out of the ring onto the concrete. But I know Goulet was there: Somewhere in my boxes of junk is an autographed scrap of paper. “Robert ‘Bob’ Goulet” is how he signed his name, perhaps to diminish any possible confusion with that other fellow by the name of Goulet.

I don’t suppose I watched televised wrestling more than a year or so before I moved on to other interests. But it was part of my life for a brief time. So for a moment Saturday afternoon, the St. Cloud Armory wasn’t filled with tables displaying necklaces, embroidered towels and home-made candles. Instead, there was a wrestling ring surrounded by rows of folding chairs. The folks sitting in the chairs were booing. And over by the wall, behind the last row of chairs, a small boy with glasses was offering a pen and a scrap of paper to a large, sweaty man.

And here’s a little bit of what else was happening in early 1965:

A Six-Pack From The Charts (Billboard Hot 100, March 6, 1965)
“Ask The Lonely” by the Four Tops, Motown 1073 (No. 27)
“New York’s A Lonely Town” by the Trade Winds, Red Bird 020 (No. 32)
“Paper Tiger” by Sue Thompson, Hickory 1284 (No. 41)
“If I Ruled The World” by Tony Bennett, Columbia 43220 (No. 56)
“When I’m Gone” by Brenda Holloway, Tamla 54111 (No. 74)
“Land of 1000 Dances” by Cannibal & the Headhunters, Rampart 642 (No. 97)

We have here, purposely, a rather odd mix: a few good pieces of R&B, a bit of surf music, a country-pop hit and one cover of a show tune.

“Ask The Lonely” was the second Top 40 hit for the Four Tops, it only went to No. 24, but it was the prelude to the Tops’ amazing run in the charts: In May, “I Can’t Help Myself” (known colloquially as “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch”) went to No. 1, the first of five Top Ten hits for the Tops in the next two years. (Included in that string is the remarkable consecutive trio of “Reach Out I’ll Be There,” “Standing In The Shadows Of Love” and “Bernadette,” a run of three singles that few groups or performers can match.) The Tops remained a frequent presence in the Top 40 chart into the early 1970s, and their last hit came in 1988 with “Indestructible,” a tune that went to No. 35 after being used by the NBC television network for its coverage of the summer Olympic Games.

“When I’m Gone” was the second of three Top 40 hits for Brenda Holloway. The first was “Every Little Bit Hurts,” which went to No. 13 in 1964. “When I’m Gone” went to No. 25. And Holloway might be best known for the song that was her last hit and went only to No. 39: Holloway wrote – along with Berry Gordy, Jr., Patrice Holloway and Frank Wilson – “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy,” a song likely better known for the version recorded by Blood, Sweat & Tears on its second, self-titled album. (BST took the song to No. 2 in 1969.)

Cannibal & the Headhunters’ version of “Land of 1000 Dances” isn’t the best known. That would be the Wilson Pickett version that went to No. 6 in 1966. Cannibal’s version went to No. 30 a year earlier. According to writer Dave Marsh, Cannibal & the Headhunters were a Chicano quartet from East Los Angeles and learned the song after hearing it on a Rufus Thomas album; Thomas had gotten the song from the original single, written and recorded in 1963 by New Orleans musician Chris Kenner. (Kenner’s “I Like It Like That, Part 1” spent three weeks at No. 2 in 1961, but his “Land of 1000 Dances” did not make the charts.) With the live atmosphere of their recording, not to mention the odd shrieks in the background, Cannibal & the Headhunters, notes Marsh, earned a spot on the Beatles’ 1965 U.S. tour.

The Trade Winds have been in this space before. The duo of Vinnie Poncia and Pete Anders recorded a couple years later as the Innocence, and their single, “There’s Got To Be A Word” and its B-Side were the topic of a post in December. With “New York’s A Lonely Town,” Poncia and Anders – along with a group of top session players – managed to make a song about the East Coast into a (subdued) surfing anthem atop a Spector-ish background. The song edged into the Top 40, peaking at No. 32. (I’ve never been sure how to spell the group’s name. I’ve seen it as two words and as one. The Billboard Book of Top 40 Hits has “Trade Winds,” so I’ll go with that.)

If the presence of “Paper Tiger” and “If I Ruled The World” prove anything, it’s that nearly any kind of music could make the Top 40 in 1965. Thompson’s country-pop record – written by J.D. Loudermilk – was her fifth and last Top 40 hit, reaching No. 23. (She reached the Top Ten Twice: In 1961, “Sad Movies (Make Me Cry)” went to No. 5, and “Norman” went to No. 3 in 1962.) “Paper Tiger” and its like aren’t something I’d want to hear on a regular basis, but when it pops up among Sharon Jones, Bruce Springsteen and the Police, it’s kind of cool.

“If I Ruled The World,” which came from the Broadway musical Pickwick, was Bennett’s thirteenth and last Top 40 hit. It’s not a great song, but Bennett can sing most anything and make it sound good. The song went to No. 34 and was pulled from an album titled If I Ruled the World: Songs for the Jet Set, which All-Music Guide says was a concept album about travel similar in theme to Frank Sinatra’s 1957 album, Come Fly With Me.

Saturday Singles Nos. 97, 98 & 99

August 24, 2011

Originally posted October 18, 2008

In the Sixties, you had to choose.

Just like those in Chicago have to choose, for life, to support the Cubs or the White Sox in their pursuit of baseball’s fortunes, so in the Sixties did kids who liked music have to make a choice. They had to declare themselves fans of either the Temptations or the Four Tops.

Both groups were worthy: marvelous vocalists singing great songs from the Motown catalog, both backed more than ably by the group of studio musicians known as the Funk Brothers. The Temptations were a little smoother, maybe a little more subtle. The Four Tops came straight at you with a few rough edges, a little more insistence that you listen to what it was they had to say.

The key voice in that insistent sound is gone. Levi Stubbs, the Four Tops’ lead singer, died Friday, October 17, at his home in Detroit.

As I’ve noted before, I paid little attention to most of the world of Top 40 music during the 1960s, but like the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Supremes, the Temptations and probably a few other performers, even a non-listener knew about the Four Tops. Their hits came rolling out of the radio that was always present when kids gathered so that even the uphip kid who preferred trumpet music knew about Levi Stubbs and his parters, knew about their great trio of 1966-67, when they released “Reach Out I’ll Be There,” followed by “Standing In The Shadows Of Love,” which was in turn followed by the sublime “Bernadette.” All three of those made the Top Ten (as did four other Four Tops singles between the years 1964 and 1988), with “Reach Out” spending two weeks at No. 1, while “Standing” went to No. 6 and “Bernadette” going to No. 4.

No one asked me “Tempts or Tops?” back then, when I was barely a teenager and still holding onto my Al Hirt records, but had they, they might have been surprised at the rapidity and surety of my answer. The Four Tops, without a doubt. I liked what I heard from the Temptations; they sang to my heart.

But the Four Tops went for my soul. At thirteen, I couldn’t really know, but I could imagine what it might be like in those shadows of love (I would find out soon enough). I understood the need to be needed hidden in the offer when Levi and the others sang “Reach out! I’ll be there!” And if I didn’t know a Bernadette – never did, as a matter of fact – then I knew other girls on whom I thought my existence depended.

And the gorgeous strong voices telling those tales, led by Stubbs’ baritone, all laid onto a background that was pulsing and inventive – check out the woodwinds at the start of “Reach Out I’ll Be There” as just one small example – those strong voices made the stories told in those songs real, true and pertinent to the lives of kids all across America.

I tend to rely on “Bernadette” as my ultimate Four Tops single; writer Dave Marsh leans on “Reach Out I’ll Be There.” Or at least, that was the highest-ranked Four Tops single when Marsh dissected the history of singles up through 1989 in The Heart of Rock & Soul. He placed “Reach Out I’ll Be There” in the fourth spot on that list, the highest-ranked of eight Four Tops record he placed among the 1,001 greatest singles.

After noting the record’s strengths – many of which can only be appreciated, Marsh says, by listening to the 45 instead of the LP or CD versions – Marsh writes, “Even Stubbs fans understand why his style can be too declamatory, but here, he’s undeniable, a man lost in a welter of misery, his shouts emerging from an abyss. The music is dizzying, the drums collide against every phrase he sings, but Levi soldiers on, riding out a maelstrom.”

And Levi soldiered on with the three other guys he’d met when they were all in high school: through a total of twenty-four Top 40 hits, seven of them in the Top Ten; through nearly thirty albums; and all the way to membership in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1990.

Age began to catch up on them. In 2005, Renaldo “Obie” Benson, the Tops’ bass singer died. And yesterday, Levi Stubbs crossed over. I imagine he’s singing to Bernadette again:

In you I have what other men long for.
All men need someone to worship and adore,
That’s why I treasure you and place you high above,
For the only joy in life is to be loved.
So whatever you do, Bernadette, keep on loving me,
Bernadette, keep on needing me,
Bernadette!

I’ve never been sure who needs whom more in that song, a quandary not unknown in life. Levi Stubbs helped millions know what it was like to feel that way.

Here are those three Four Tops songs, today’s Saturday Singles:

“Reach Out I’ll Be There” [1966]

“Standing In the Shadows Of Love” [1966]

“Bernadette” [1967]

“You’re Not To Blame . . .’

May 6, 2011

Originally posted August 28, 2007

It was nearly impossible, during the autumn of 1966, to escape the Left Banke.

Even one who didn’t listen avidly to pop music heard, seemingly everywhere, the violins and reedy vocals that dominated the Left Banke’s hit “Walk Away, Renee.” During its ten-week stay in the Top 40 – and it seemed a longer time than that – the record peaked at No. 5 and became one of the enduring earworms of the 1960s. Just a ten-second snippet of the song is liable to embed the song in one’s mind for hours.

That’s not to say that “Walk Away, Renee” is not a beautiful record. It is. The group’s chief writer, Michael Brown, wrote “Renee” with friends Bob Calilli and Tony Sansone, but he wrote most of the rest of the group’s oeuvre on his own. In doing so, Brown showed a skill in composition far greater than one would expect a teenager to have, and his craft in writing lyrics was also obvious, though not as astounding as his composition skills.

And the song, whether its strains came from a hand-held transistor radio, from the backseat speaker in a car or from a larger radio set at home, drew listeners in. The clearly sung chorus – “Just walk away, Renee; you won’t see me follow you back home.” – contrasted with the muffled vocals of the verses, leaving listeners to wonder exactly why Renee was being dismissed. I recall numerous discussions after school and on weekends of exactly what the words were and what did they mean?

(I looked at the lyrics for the first time ever today, as I was writing this, and finally resolved a question that I’d pondered very occasionally for the past forty years. I’d wondered if there truly were a sunglasses reference in the lyrics, for I’ve always heard the words “Foster-Grants” in the song. It turns out that I was mishearing the words “forced to cry.”)

Those types of conversations – detecting the accurate lyrics to a popular song – are less frequent now, I assume, with the existence of so many lyric sites on the ’Net. There still might be challenges in divining the meanings of lyrics, though. (And not all sites are all that accurate, of course. I recall one lyrics site that misheard one song’s words “I’m from the barrio” as “I’m from the bayou.”)

In the years since we first heard of the singer’s unrequited love for Renee, there have been numerous covers of the song. One of the more evocative versions came from Vonda Shepard for the television show Ally McBeal in late 1990s. That’s a little more recent than I like to deal with here, so I’ve selected one of the earliest cover versions of the song, that by the Four Tops.

At first thought, the pairing seems odd. The Four Tops’ greatest success came with more forceful work, songs like “Standing In The Shadows Of Love” and “Bernadette,” not with the light, airy strains of something like “Walk Away, Renee.” But lead singer Levi Stubbs and his partners – backed by the superlative Motown studio players – do a pretty good job with the song, and the resulting single (Motown 1119) reached No. 14 on the pop chart in the early spring of 1968.

And it’s easier to understand the lyrics, too.

Four Tops – “Walk Away, Renee” [1968]

Chart Digging: Early February 1971

February 8, 2011

Moments lead to memories that lead to tales. A trip to the dumpster in a February wind reminded me of the time during my senior year when I was suspended from school for a day.

Our house is adjacent to an apartment complex owned by our landlord, and when we moved in, he said that instead of hauling garbage cans down to the end of the driveway once a week, we could drop our trash in the dumpster at the end of the complex’s parking lot. We generally do so as part of an errand elsewhere, carting trash bags over in one of the two cars. The other day, getting the car out of the garage seemed to be a lot of work, so I walked a bag of trash over.

I did so in the face of a harsh northwestern wind. Head down, I made my way across the parking lot, and I recalled how, on bitterly cold and windy days, my childhood schoolmates and I would sometimes walk backwards down Fifth Avenue toward Lincoln Elementary School, protecting our faces from the harsh wind. We knew the route well, and the sidewalks were almost always shoveled, so walking in reverse, especially in a group, carried no hazards. It was just a little slower.

And my memory train chugged from walking backwards along Fifth Avenue to the occasional times during the early 1960s when a grey Forties-vintage auto would pull up alongside me, and the college guy I’ll call EJ – already transporting two of his brothers and a sister – would give me a ride to school. The family lived four houses north of us on Kilian Boulevard and several of the kids were frequent participants in our neighborhood’s semi-organized games. So EJ was a Kilian kid, but even more important to me was what he did at St. Cloud State.

He was the quarterback for the Huskies, and – with my folks – I spent as many Saturday evenings at Selke Field as I could back then, watching EJ lead the Huskies against teams that included the Bemidji State Beavers, the Winona State Warriors and the other Huskies from Michigan Tech, based in that state’s Upper Peninsula. EJ played for the Huskies from 1959 through 1962 and in 1960, he was named All-Conference quarterback for the Northern Intercollegiate Conference. I suppose he was my first football hero, the neighborhood kid who made good in a way that mattered very much to me – and to many others on the East Side and elsewhere.

After his football days were over and he earned his degree from St. Cloud State, EJ stayed in town. He got a job in the administration at St. Cloud Tech High and – with a master’s degree, I’m assuming – worked his way up the administrative ladder. By the time I was a senior, EJ was the assistant principal, in charge of discipline. I saw him in Tech’s hallways on occasion, as I had for the first two years of high school when his title was different, and he always had a smile and wave for me.

Then came the morning – during the early part of 1971 – when I was summoned to meet with EJ. That never meant anything good, but I had no clue what I might have done wrong.

I sat on a chair outside EJ’s office, going over the past few days for transgressions. Nothing came to mind. I’d been absent two days earlier, but Mom had called me in sick, so that wasn’t it. And as I sat there, I watched the high school’s version of hard cases – habitual fighters, teacher-cursers and class-skippers – come and go from EJ’s office. I felt like Arlo Guthrie on the Group W bench.

Finally, it was my turn. I took a chair across from EJ, smiled wanly and shrugged. I still had no idea what I might have done. He looked at a piece of paper and then asked me, “Did you skip class during ninth hour yesterday?”

No, I told him. In that class – a social studies offering called Problems of Democracy – we were divided into study groups, and we didn’t meet every day. I didn’t mention it to EJ, but I was glad of that, as Mr. S, the teacher, was officious and overbearing, and I didn’t enjoy his class at all. I did tell EJ that sometime during the previous morning, I’d crossed paths with another member of my study group and – having been out sick the day before – verified that our study group was not scheduled to meet. I didn’t have to go to class ninth hour, so I didn’t.

EJ nodded. “So where were you?”

In the library, I told him. I’d been at a table with the current object of my affection, the one in whose locker I would leave song lyrics in purple ink. She had a study period that hour and always spent it in the library. When I was free, I was there, too.

EJ nodded again, chewed his cheek as he looked at the paper in his hand. Then he looked at me. “Because you were absent the day before, you really should have gone to class during ninth hour and checked in with Mr. S. He reported you absent without permission, and technically, he’s right.” He looked at me, chewed his cheek again and sighed.

“Look, I know Mr. S,” he said. And EJ looked in my eyes and I got the message that whatever I might have thought about Mr. S, he agreed with me. “But,” he went on, “you did technically skip class. And I have to suspend you for the day.”

Great, I thought. Students suspended for the day were installed in a small room in the office area, where they sat all day in supervised silence, doing class assignments. I was going to spend the day with Group W doing homework.

EJ sighed again and tossed the report of my unauthorized absence on his desk. “Okay,” he said, “go spend the day in the library. Go to lunch at your usual time, hang around the band room for an hour like you do, and then end the day in the library.”

I started to thank him, and he waved me on with a half-smile. “Go to the library!” he said. So I did.

Word spread, of course, that I – an unlikely candidate if ever there were one – had been suspended for the day. My name was on the list of suspensions passed out by the attendance office, and students had easy access to those lists, which teachers often left in the open. Friends of mine who came and went in the library that day – including my Dulcinea – wanted to know what heck had happened. I did get tired of telling the tale, but we all agreed on our thoughts about Mr. S.

Being suspended also meant not being allowed to take part in school activities, so after school, I went to tell Kiff, the wrestling coach, that I’d resume my duties as manager the next day. As I entered the wrestling room, the wrestlers cheered and applauded. When the noise faded, Kiff asked me if the rumor he’d heard was true: “Were you really smoking a pipe?” (He meant a traditional pipe intended for tobacco, not one for illicit substances.) I laughed a little and told him no. He was relieved; if I had been smoking anything, I’d have lost my post as manager. But, he added, “If there were any student who might have smoked a pipe instead of a cigarette, it would be you.”

Not sure what to say to that, I just said I’d be back the next day, and glumly headed out of the gym toward the school’s back door. A fellow choir member saw me: “Now you get to go home and tell the folks, right?” I nodded and went on my way.

My folks weren’t horribly upset although they weren’t pleased either. I do think they were happy I didn’t have to spend the day with Group W, thanks to a favor passed from one Kilian Kid to another.

I’m sure that as I sat in my room that evening and pondered that favor, I had the radio on. And I’m just as sure that during my pondering I heard some of these songs, the Billboard Top Ten from forty years ago this week:

“One Bad Apple” by the Osmonds
“Knock Three Times” by Dawn
“Rose Garden” by Lynn Anderson
“I Hear You Knocking” by Dave Edmunds
“Lonely Days” by the Bee Gees
“My Sweet Lord/Isn’t It A Pity” by George Harrison
“Groove Me” by King Floyd
“Your Song” by Elton John
“If I Were Your Woman” by Gladys Knight and the Pips
“Mama’s Pearl” by the Jackson 5

That’s a good set. I wasn’t all that crazy about the Osmonds’ record forty years ago, but now, it’s a nice slice of time. The same holds true for the Dawn record. But the rest don’t need to be memories; the bottom nine from that list (counting Harrison’s B-Side) is a great batch of records.

As usual, we’re going to look a little bit deeper into the Billboard Hot 100 from that week, but we’re not going to go too deep to start with. At No. 15, we find one of my favorite one-hit wonders of all time. Wadsworth Mansion was a band from Los Angeles, and during this week forty years ago, the group’s “Sweet Mary” was at No. 15, having leapt from No. 44 the previous week. The record would eventually peak at No. 7. I love the “Wap, wa-dooba do wop wop” introduction!

From there, however, we’ll tumble out of the Top 40, just across the border to No. 44. There we find the Four Tops with “Just Seven Numbers (Can Straighten Out My Life),” an almost mournful tune about trying to get back things that have been lost. The record – with its classic Motown sound – would peak at No. 40 and go to No. 9 on the R&B chart.

I knew nothing about T. Rex until “Bang A Gong (Get It On)” during early 1972, and I didn’t rush out and buy any records then. I entirely missed the group’s first charting single, “Ride A White Swan,” which was at No. 76 forty years ago, when the group was still called Tyrannosaurus Rex. But then, a lot of folks missed the record, as it went no higher. It strikes me as a very odd single, but I never really got the glam thing, anyway. From forty years away, it’s far more interesting to me than it would have been then.

From being a murderer on the run in “Indiana Wants Me,” R. Dean Taylor went all green. His lament for the environment, “Ain’t It A Sad Thing,” was at No. 87 forty years ago. Taylor would have two more singles hit the Hot 100 and another reach the Bubbling Under section of the list, but he’d never hit the Top 40 again. “Ain’t It A Sad Thing” did the best of Taylor’s post-Indiana singles, getting to No. 66.

Ballin’ Jack was an “inter-racial jazz-rock group from San Francisco,” according to Joel Whitburn’s Top Pop Singles, and the group’s only single to reach the Billboard charts was “Super Highway.” Forty years ago this week, the record was at No. 98 in its first week in the Hot 100. I’ve listened to bits of the group’s two albums, and I’ve liked what I’ve heard. (I suppose that being a horn rock fan helps.) But the best the group could do was get “Super Highway” to No. 93.

The Detroit Emeralds were a long-active band that, despite their name, evidently started out in Little Rock, Arkansas. (Whitburn seems to indicate that the original core of the group formed in Arkansas before heading to Detroit.) “Do Me Right,” which was Bubbling Under at No. 118 forty years ago this week, became the second Hot 100 hit for the group, peaking at No. 43. (On the R&B chart, it was the third Top 40 hit for the Emeralds, going as high as No. 7.) The group would eventually have six records reach the Hot 100 and eight records in the R&B Top 40. The Emerald’s best-charting record came in 1972 with “Baby Let Me Take You (In My Arms),” which went to No. 24 on the pop chart and to No. 4 on the R&B chart.

All Elevens, All The Time!

January 11, 2011

I had planned today to write about an obscure cover of an obscure Bob Dylan tune, discovered in my vinyl stacks via my current reading of two books about Dylan’s catalog. And I still will do that, and I’ll offer a chance to hear that tune. But that will likely come Thursday.

Why the delay?

Because along with digging into records from over the years, I also like playing with numbers, and today’s date just can’t be ignored: 1/11/11. And even though I played a similar game last Saturday with the number 18, well, it can’t be helped. Today’s date calls loudly for a look at records that were No. 11 during various years on January 11. We’ll start in 1965 and move ahead from there, this time in four-year increments. So here we go.

I’ve told the story about how my sister and I got the LP Beatles ’65 for Christmas one year (either 1964 or 1965, I’m still not entirely certain). The album, a late 1964 release, was one of those that Capitol created for the U.S. market by trimming a few tracks from Beatles LPs as they were released in the U.K. and then adding some tracks released only as singles in Britain. However it was put together, Beatles ’65 was my first album by the boys from Liverpool, and its tunes and track order remain ingrained in my memory. I loved “I Feel Fine,” “Rock and Roll Music” and “Mister Moonlight,” but one of the tracks to which I didn’t, to be honest, pay much attention at the time is the one that was No. 11 in the Billboard Hot 100 forty-six years ago today. Released as the B-side to “I Feel Fine,” “She’s A Woman” went to No. 4, according to Joel Whitburn’s Top Pop Singles, and I do think its crunchy chords and Paul McCartney’s great vocal tend to get lost a little bit today among the riches of the Beatles’ catalog. According to William J. Dowlding in his book Beatlesongs, the tune was written in Abbey Road studio the day it was recorded, October 8, 1964.

Having identified the No. 11 record from January 11, 1969, I turned to Whitburn’s book for more information, and a terse line told me that if I wanted information about the singer who called himself Derek, I needed to go read about Johnny Cymbal. It turns out that Cymbal was a Scottish singer who got three records into the Hot 100 in 1963, with “Mr. Bass Man” – an effort Whitburn tags as a novelty record – going to No. 16. Six years later, in 1969, Cymbal – who died in 1993 at the age of forty-eight – was recording as Derek and had two Hot 100 hits, “Cinnamon” and “Back Door Man.” The latter went to No. 59 in March 1969, but “Cinnamon” nearly made the Top Ten, peaking at the No. 11 spot it held forty-two years ago today.

The Four Tops seem so firmly planted in the mid-1960s with their string of superlative Top Ten singles – “Reach Out, I’ll Be There,” “Standing In The Shadows Of Love” and “Bernadette” chief among them – that it’s sometime surprising when one is reminded that the Tops’ career stretched through the 1970s and into the 1980s (though with less chart success). One of the quartet’s most successful 1970s entries was sitting at No. 11 during this week in 1973. “Keeper of the Castle” would peak the following week at No. 10, giving the Four Tops their first Top Ten hit since “Bernadette” in early 1967. The Tops’ next single, “Ain’t No Woman (Like The One I’ve Got),” did even better, going to No. 4 in April of 1973; it was the last Top Ten hit for the Four Tops. But thirty-eight years ago this week, it was “Keeper of the Castle” that folks were hearing on the radio.

The Sylvers were a group of nine brothers and sisters from Memphis who had three records reach the lower level of the Hot 100 in 1972 and 1973 before hitting it massively in early 1976 with the No. 1 hit “Boogie Fever.” Later that year, the group released “Hot Line,” and the record began to make its way up the chart. By the second week in January, the record was at No. 11, heading to No. 5. The group had two more hits in 1977, with “High School Dance” going to No. 17. I don’t recall that last record, but in late 1976 and early 1977, “Hot Line” was pretty much inescapable.

I never quite got the Police. Their music seemed brittle and fussy to me, and although I didn’t entirely tune it out, neither did I dig into it. Still, the group’s hits would pop up on the radio during my newspapering days as I made my way from interview to interview. And twenty-nine years ago this week, I likely heard “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” as I drove around Monticello and the record was perched at No. 11. A week later, the record would peak at No. 10, giving the Police their first Top Ten hit. They’d have five more through 1984. Here’s the official video for “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da.”

I don’t suppose I have to say a lot about the record that was at No. 11 this week in 1985, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” Or maybe I do. I will note that more than a quarter century later, I still find myself amused by George Will’s fawning column about the Boss in which – after spending an evening at a Springsteen concert – he interprets “Born in the U.S.A.” as a patriotic anthem. And I suppose that it’s not all that far-fetched – though it is saddening – to think that all one needs to do these days is plug a few different proper nouns into the lyrics, and “Born in the U.S.A.” is timely today. Getting back to the record, it would peak at No. 9 two weeks later, Springsteen’s fourth Top Ten hit and the third of seven Top Ten hits from the album Born in the U.S.A.

I’ll be back Thursday, likely with that obscure cover of an obscure Bob Dylan tune.

‘That’s Why I’ve Traveled Far . . .’

September 23, 2010

We had no reason to go to Finland except to say we’d been in Finland. But a stay of less than twenty-four hours in a small northern town there led to what I suppose was the grand romantic gesture of my life.

It was April of 1974, and John the Mad Australian and I were riding the trains north from Stockholm, Sweden, heading to Narvik, Norway. Narvik was the end of the line, as far north as one could ride a train in Western Europe. Our plan was to travel overnight from Stockholm to the city of Boden, Sweden, where we would take a side trip, changing to a train that headed east to Finland, first to the border town of Tornio, and then on to the city of Kemi.

Why the detour? For me, it was just to be able to say that I’d been to Finland, I guess. I wasn’t looking for anything more adventurous than a moderate language barrier and a good beer. Nor was John, whom I’d met in Stockholm and who was tagging along companionably during my tour of the far north. “I’ve never been there, so I may as well go,” had pretty much been his attitude since we’d met over breakfast at the train station in Stockholm a couple days earlier.

So from Boden, we traveled on through Haparanda, Sweden (and the customs house where we’d be detained a day later, but that’s another story), across the Tornio River and into Finland, then through the city of Tornio and on to Kemi, maybe twenty miles further on. We found ourselves a room at a nearby hotel, stashed our backpacks and walked into Kemi’s downtown, looking for the local equivalent of a burger and a beer. The downtown area wasn’t large – Kemi has a population of 22,000 these days, and I imagine it was a little smaller then – but it was baffling, as neither John nor I spoke or read Finnish.

So we peered into windows as we walked among the shops, looking for a place that looked like a café. After some false starts, we found one, and at the counter, we each ordered the item on the menu that most closely resembled “hamburger” and we pointed at what appeared to be – and were – bottles of beer in the cooler. Thus armed with refreshment, we found an empty table, and over our dinner, John began to wonder if we could find a pair of young women to take dancing or at least to join for conversation.

He began to assess the potential of the several pairs of young women in the restaurant, and as he did, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The two young women at the table next to us understood English well and were trying very hard not to laugh at us. I nodded at them, smiling a little sheepishly, and then I interrupted John in mid-soliloquy. “John,” I told him, “the young ladies at the next table understand English. They’re very amused.”

He looked at them and grinned, and moments later, we’d joined them at their table. The four of us finished our meals over introductions – they were Leena (pronounced Lay-na) and Ritva – and then we all went off to a nearby downstairs bar for further refreshment.

We never did dance. I spent those few hours talking mostly with Leena while John chatted with Ritva. We talked about school – she would soon complete the Finnish equivalent of high school – and about music and about life in Finland and in the United States. She’d been an exchange student in Michigan for a year, and I told her that parts of Michigan were very much like portions of Minnesota. We exchanged addresses and talked about families. Her birthday was approaching – she would be twenty – and she asked about mine. I told her the date – September 5 – and she asked, “So doesn’t that make you a virgin?”

It took me a stunned moment or two to realize she was talking about Virgo, my sign of the Zodiac. I stammered a response that was supposed to be witty and failed, and we shifted topics and talked on for another hour or so. Near the end of that hour, at about the time she said she and Ritva had to leave, I leaned over and kissed her. She kissed back, and a few minutes later, she and Ritva were gone.

John and I went back to our hotel, and the next morning, we returned to Sweden and eventually made our way north to Narvik and then south to Oslo, Norway, where we parted. He headed for the fjords at Bergen, and I went back to Denmark and – three weeks later – Minnesota. About two weeks after I got home, I got a letter from Finland. Leena apologized for asking me if I were a virgin, explaining that she simply got her English confused. I wrote back, telling her that after a moment of surprise, I’d known what she’d meant and that I took no offense.

A few weeks later, another letter arrived, and I answered, and for almost five years, letters went back and forth between St. Cloud and Kemi, between St. Cloud and Oulu – where Leena went to university – and Monticello and Oulu. Then a letter lay too long unanswered on one of our desks – probably mine – and the letters dwindled and then stopped.

Before they stopped, however, I startled her. As our friendship grew via the mail, we’d occasionally brought up the idea of meeting again and seeing if we cared about each other as much in person as it seemed we did through letters. Being in a slow spot in my life – lots of first dates but not much more than that – I tumbled that idea around in my head, polishing it like a jewel. And during the spring and summer of 1975, I slowly came to the conclusion that I should write a letter to Leena proposing marriage.

Never mind the countless practical details. I knew they were there, but I figured there was no point in examining them unless there were a reason to do so. I mentioned the idea to a few carefully selected friends, and they were supportive, noting that I should be prepared for disappointment. I understood; I knew that there was little likelihood of her accepting my offer. But I also knew that I didn’t want to wake up some morning in 2010, look at the life around me and wonder what might have been if I’d been brave and foolish back in 1975. So in September and October, I spent several evenings in the quiet snack bar at Atwood Center, drafting and redrafting my letter. Finally satisfied, I mailed it sometime in late October; the “thunk” as the mailbox closed was one of the loudest sounds in my life.

She said “No,” of course. I wasn’t surprised. Had she said “Yes,” I would have had to reorder my life, and I would have done so gladly. But the chances of that had been slender, and I passed the news to my friends and then to my family. (None of my family had any idea I’d proposed to Leena until I received her reply.) And I moved on.

So why bring this up now? Because one evening in the spring of 1975, as my grand romantic gesture was in its formative stages, I mentioned it to a young ladyfriend, asking her thoughts. She went to her stereo, put Fleetwood Mac’s Bare Trees on the turntable and played me the second track on side two:

And I heard, as my friend intended, “That’s why I’ve traveled far, ’cause I come so together where you are.” And it’s appropriate I connect my tale with the record, with the Fleetwood Mac hit that might have been but never was. It was issued as a single by Reprise, but went nowhere although writer Bob Welch got a No. 8 hit out of an inferior remake in 1978. But in another universe, the original version of “Sentimental Lady” was a hit. And in another universe . . . well, I’m happy with the universe I’m in. I’m glad I wrote the letter I wrote. I’m glad I got the response I expected. And I don’t have to wake up tomorrow morning and wonder what might have happened.

A Six-Pack from the Ultimate Jukebox, No. 35
“Dancing in the Street” by Martha & the Vandellas, Gordy 7033 [1964]
“Bernadette” by the Four Tops, Motown 1104 [1967]
“California Soul” by Marlena Shaw from The Spice of Life [1969]
“God, Love and Rock & Roll by Teegarden & Van Winkle, Westbound 170 [1970]
“Sentimental Lady” by Fleetwood Mac from Bare Trees [1972]
“The Promised Land” by Bruce Springsteen from Darkness on the Edge of Town [1978]

The riches of Motown continually astound me, and I imagine I’m not alone in that. I mean, Martha & the Vandellas, Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, the Temptations, the Four Tops, Stevie Wonder, the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, the Jackson 5 and the young Michael Jackson, and that’s just the very top of the mountain. Great songs, great performers, great studio musicians and great production all leave not much more to be said, except that “Dancing in the Street” went to No. 2 in autumn of 1964, and “Bernadette” went to No. 4 in the spring of 1967.

I wrote about “California Soul” once before, using Marlena Shaw’s version as a take-off point, and a few readers chimed into a discussion of the merits of their favorite versions of the song. I’ve not heard a bad version of the tune – although I’m certain there is at least one out there if I were bent on finding it – but I return to Shaw’s for a couple of reasons. First, I think it’s the first version I heard of the tune, and first versions tend to stay in my head longer – not always, but frequently. And second, I’m pulled in by the dry wit in her voice as she sings of the glories of the Golden State, which gives her vocal a sense of, oh, amusement at the folks who’ve come looking for that soul she sings about. Or maybe that’s just the way she sings. Either way, it sticks with me.

Listen to Teegarden & Van Winkle now:

Cheer the light
Still the fires
Raise your voice for
God, love, and rock and roll

We that fear
The way is clear
The day has come for
God, love, and rock and roll

Sing your song
We all belong
Now’s the time for
God, love, and rock and roll

’Nuff said, I think, except to note that Teegarden & Van Winkle took “God, Love And Rock & Roll” to No. 22 in the autumn of 1970.

“The Promised Land” is the third and final record by Bruce Springsteen in the Ultimate Jukebox, and that’s one more than anyone else has. Does that mean that Springsteen has taken over the top spot in my all-time rankings of performers and bands? I’m not at all sure. When I started sifting through more than 40,000 mp3s – and paging through reference books to make sure I hadn’t overlooked any essential tunes that weren’t in the RealPlayer – I would have made bets that Bob Dylan or the Beatles or The Band would have had more tracks than anyone else. That it was Springsteen, and that his three tracks came from two of his early albums – the other tracks were “Born to Run” and “Badlands” – tells me only that at the moment I was sifting through the tunes from 1975 and 1978, those three jumped out at me. I imagine that if I were to start over, my 228 tunes for this project would look very different. Would those three Springsteen titles still be there? Probably. As I trimmed and trimmed songs from the list, I kept finding that I could not trim off any of those three Springsteen tunes, for different reasons: “Born to Run” for its place in history and its ambition, “Badlands” because it was the first Springsteen record I ever knowingly heard, and “The Promised Land” for its harmonica and for the words: “Mister, I ain’t a poet boy, I’m a man, and I believe in a promised land.”

The original isn’t available on YouTube, and I can’t embed what I found there this morning, but here’s a link to a kick-ass performance of the song in Barcelona, Spain, in 2002.