Archive for the ‘1965’ Category

It’s odd the way the mind’s turntable works. 

Earlier this week, singer-songwriter Courtney Marie Andrews posted to her Instagram account that she “can’t wait to sing with humans in a room, that’s what I miss most.” For reasons only a mystic may know, that simple admission caused my inner turntable to queue up the “Someday We’ll Be Together” 45 by Diana Ross & the Supremes.

The song was written by Johnny Bristol, Jackey Beavers and Harvey Fuqua in 1961, and was first recorded and released that same year by Bristol and Beavers (as Johnny and Jackey) on the Tri-Phi label. That version, however, features little of the magic heard in Diana’s rendition…

… which, though billed as a “Diana Ross & the Supremes” song, was recorded with Merry Clayton, Patrice Holloway, Maxine Waters and Julia Waters on backing vocals, not Mary Wilson and Cindy Birdsong. Johnny Bristol, who joined the Motown fold in the mid-1960s, had worked up the track for Jr. Walker and the All-Stars, but Berry Gordy decided it was better suited for Diana; at that stage, he earmarked it as her solo debut. He changed his mind after it was completed, however, and issued it instead as the final single from Diana Ross & the Supremes in order to help promote Diana’s departure from the group. Bristol’s vocal contributions, by the way, came about by accident: In an early take, the engineer accidentally recorded him while he was positioned off-mic singing along and offering words of encouragement to Diana. They liked the result, so kept it.

Released on October 14, 1969, it peaked at No. 1 on the pop charts for the week of December 27th, so is technically both the final No. 1 of the 1960s and first No. 1 of the 1970s. 

What’s wild about the song: Although written 59 years ago about love and regret (“Long time ago my, my sweet thing, I made a big mistake, honey/I say, I said goodbye”), it remains as relevant as ever – no more so than today, given that the pandemic is keeping loved ones apart: “I wanna say, I wanna say, I wanna say some day we’ll be together/Yes we will, yes we will say some day we’ll be together/Some day, some sweet day, we will be together…” 

The first song released under the Diana Ross & the Supremes moniker, “Reflections,” is a Holland-Dozier-Holland gem that, though about love, is also applicable to these times: “Through the mirror of my mind/Time after time/I see reflections of you and me/Reflections of/The way life used to be…”

Released on July 24th, 1967 (aka the Summer of Love), it rose to No. 2 on the charts by September 9th – and sports a soft (and somewhat dated) psychedelic sound due to the use of a test oscillator as part of its sonic makeup. Yet, it remains a great song – one of my favorites by Diana & Company.

(Both have been added to my list of songs Courtney Marie should cover – though I doubt she ever will.)

A year later, Diana and the Supremes released the Diana Ross & the Supremes Sing and Perform “Funny Girl,” a sales misstep – it peaked at No. 150 – that, yet, is eminently enjoyable. One highlight – and another song that could have been written about life during the COVID-19 pandemic – is “People.”

If you listened, you heard Diana’s heartfelt plea, which could well be spoken today: “People, God’s children, were born to be free, to love/All the people have a dream/for peace, for security/let the world fall in love again/please, please, let our lives not be in vain…”

Another H-D-H classic, “My World Is Empty Without You,” released by the Supremes at the tail end of 1965, echoes modern life, as well:

Incidentally, its album home – I Hear a Symphony, which was released in early 1966 – is well worth many spins. The title cut is a classic, of course…

…and there’s also a touching cover of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Another highlight is their rendition of “Unchained Melody,” which had been a hit for the Righteous Brothers the year before:

Too often, songs of yesteryear are dismissed as relics from a bygone age – as if love, heartache and regret are modern conceits. Yeah, sure, the albums by the Supremes often include covers of then-popular hits, as well as Broadway favorites, but – to me, at least – that’s part of their charm. At their best, which is often, Diana Ross and the Supremes (both pre- and post-ampersand) simultaneously reflect and transcend their times, and remain as relevant and wonderful as ever.

(As noted in my first Essentials entry, this is an occasional series in which I spotlight albums that, in my estimation, everyone should experience at least once.)

Last week, I watched Bob Dylan: Roads Rapidly Changing, a documentary that recounts Dylan’s rise in and eventual departure from the Greenwich Village folk scene. He arrived in the Big Apple from the Land of 10,000 Lakes in 1961 with no connections, but – due to his talent and drive – quickly made a name for himself. “Blowing in the Wind,” The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, “The Times They Are a-Changing,” Another Side of Bob Dylan and Bringing It All Back Home, his 1965 farewell to the folkie world, date to this period in his life.  

The film, which I highly recommend, features a wealth of archival footage and performances alongside insights from an assortment of fellow Village folkies (Eric Andersen, Maria Muldaur and Tom Paxton) and rock journalists (Robert Christgau and Anthony DeCurtis).

Highway 61 Revisited, released a mere five months after Bringing It All Back Home, isn’t covered in the doc, which is understandable – it was his first full-fledged rock album, and the film focuses exclusively on his folkie days. Still, think about that for a second: In an era where it can take an artist years to release the next album, Dylan released two monumental sets within five months of each other. Paradigms shifted with each.

Of Bringing It All Back Home: The first side features Dylan backed by an electric band – a radical notion within the purist folk scene at the time. In the most simplistic description, the new sound marries the folk form to the rock beat.

The second half features an acoustic Dylan at his most electric.

There’s little more to say but this: The album, which expanded the concept of what popular music could and should be, is consistently rated as one of the greatest of all time. (This Rolling Stone article delves into its impact.) It sounds as fresh today as it must have sounded in 1965.

One last thought: Since the dawn of written history, there have always been purges of the past in order to placate the present. (You might say that we, as a people, have a long history of criticizing what we can’t understand.) Humans are flawed creatures, in other words, with our biggest flaw being that we tend to run with the pack. But in the mid-‘60s, Bob Dylan didn’t turn his back on what came before. Instead, he synthesized it into something new.

The track list:

(As noted in my first Essentials entry, this is an occasional series in which I spotlight albums that, in my estimation, everyone should experience at least once.)

Like many a child of the ‘70s, my introduction to the surf-rock stylings of Jan & Dean came by way of oldies radio. In my case, it was Michael St. John’s Saturday-night show on WPEN-AM in Philadelphia, which I tuned in after Elvis Presley’s death. I picked up a few double A-sided singles of theirs from the Hatboro Music Shop and, like many of my classmates, was blown away by Deadman’s Curve, the made-for-TV biopic about them that aired on CBS on Feb. 3, 1978.

I was 12 years old. Soon enough my attention would be diverted elsewhere – but I never forgot about their music, which I found funny, sly and just plain good. A year or three later, in fact, I wound up picking up their two-LP Anthology. Not only did it collect their best work, aka their hits, but it also included their versions of two Beach Boys songs (“Surfin’ Safari” and “Little Deuce Coupe”) and two Beatles songs (“Michelle” and “You’ve Got to Hide My Love Away”).

Fast forward a few more years, to the end of 1984: I’m browsing the used and rare vinyl in Memory Lane Records in Horsham and come across Early L.A., a compilation that featured pre-fame recordings by Dino Valenti, David Crosby, the Byrds and Canned Heat… and Jan & Dean’s 1965 LP Folk ’n Roll, which found the duo trading in their surfboards for fringed jackets.

The mid-‘60s were a difficult time for established acts, remember. Times and tastes were changing at a rapid clip, and veterans were doing whatever they could to hold onto the spotlight. Folk ’n Roll is a perfect example of that. It’s not a great album, though it has a few good-great moments; and, title aside, it’s less folk-rock and more pop-folk, with a dose of attempted satire tossed into the mix.

That said, the opener – “I Found a Girl” – could’ve been released at any point in the preceding years …

I should mention that it was co-written by the legendary P.F. Sloan and partner Steve Barri, who worked with Jan Berry often in those days. (That’s Sloan’s falsetto on “The Little Old Lady from Pasadena,” in fact.) “Where Were You When I Needed You,” which closes the first side, is also theirs; and has more of a folk-rock feel…

“Where Were You” was a hit for the Grass Roots the following year, of course; that group was created after Sloan-Barri’s demo began receiving airplay sometime in 1965. The Jan & Dean version falls between the demo and the official Grass Roots release, I believe. I should add that its similarity to Sloan’s “Eve of Destruction” is even more pronounced here because “Eve” falls two songs earlier on this album side.

Part of what I find to be the kitschy charm of Folk ‘n Roll comes from the earnest unease that the duo have with the material. They don’t sound comfortable with the slowed folk-rock beat or ringing Rickenbacker, for example, though their harmonies remain a joy to hear…

…and, yet, the album is eminently listenable – even the one misfire, “A Beginning from an End,” about a man seeing his late wife in his daughter. That sounds sweet, and it is – up until the spoken interlude, when he recalls the wife’s death during childbirth. “I felt so all alone as they wheeled you through the doors and told me to wait….” (In some respects, that interlude conjures “Deadman’s Curve.”) The song sounds great until you listen to the lyrics, basically. And once you do? It becomes awkward. And crass. Let’s leave it there.

Well, let’s not. Here it is:

Likewise, their attempt at satire with “The Universal Coward” falls flat – the song is similar, in a sense, to “Ballad of the Yellow Beret,” the parody of Sgt. Barry Sadler’s “Ballad of the Green Beret” that featured a young Bob Seger. (In their defense: Neither possessed crystal balls that foretold what was to come.) More funny: the back cover picture of a new “potest” movement:

And, too, the title tune – which borrows its melody from “Surf City” – is a funny delight. Unlike “Coward,” it pokes affectionate fun at the folk-rock scene.

So, in short: Not a great album (thus it’s “(un)essential designation”), but an interesting listen, all the same.

To hear the album in full (and with commercials):