The 100 Best Singles In My Head
Nos. 1-5
AND THE WINNER IS . . .
[ . . . drum roll, please!]
Well, I told you it would be subjective. These are not the top five singles of all time on Rolling Stones' list, or Mojo's list, or any other list put together by rock snobs or music pundits. I haven't jiggered it to showcase my favorite bands (look, no Kinks! no Nick Lowe!) or to make a political statement or to show off my superior taste. You'll notice I've already written about all of these songs -- BUT OF COURSE!! These are simply the five singles that knocked me hardest off my feet in the course of my life.
And yeah, they're all from the 1960s, because that was the decade that made me the music fan I am. Or more importantly, that made me the person I am. Which is really what the music's all about, isn't it?
[Click on the highlighted links to read my earlier posts on those songs]
1. "The Letter" / The Box Tops (1967)
I hear those knocking lead-in drum beats, and I am GONE. When all is said and done, the essence of rock and roll is nothing more or less than hormonal teenage cravings, and nobody has ever expressed that randy yearning better than an absurdly young Alex Chilton, fronting this seminal Memphis pop group.
2. "Happy Together" / The Turtles (1967)
They were hardly one-hit wonders, but even the Turtles never again hit such a sweet spot, a magical convergence of lilting melody, playful rhythms, and intimate vocals that will forever be the soundtrack of my eighth-grade nirvana.
3. "She's Not There" / The Zombies (1964)
The first 45 I ever owned -- if only my taste had always been this impeccable!
4. "If I Fell" / "And I Love Her" / The Beatles (1964)
Desperately in love with the Beatles -- okay, okay, in love with Paul McCartney, who was in 1964 the most beautiful man on the planet -- of course I had both of these tracks on the Hard Day's Night album, the first LP I ever owned. But I simply had to buy the single too, so smitten was I with this matched set of John/Paul declarations of love.
5. "Wouldn't It Be Nice" / "God Only Knows" / The Beach Boys (1966)
Honestly, I wasn't a Beach Boys fan, not really. And by 1966, I already had the Beatles to keep me warm -- what did I need with these clean-cut California boys in their squaresville striped shirts? But then they unleashed this pair of gloriously inventive tracks, back and front of one 7-inch vinyl masterpiece, and set a new gold standard for rock-pop brilliance.
And now, YOU tell ME -- what would your #1 be?
Showing posts with label turtles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label turtles. Show all posts
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Monday, March 05, 2007
"Happy Together" / The Turtles
I wasn't particularly a Turtles fan, but when this song came out in 1967 you couldn't escape it -- and who'd want to? I remember making out to it at a party with a junior-high boyfriend named Mike (in classic junior-high fashion, I secretly liked his best friend Mark better -- that's how happy together Mike and I were). Come to think of it, listening to this song was probably the best thing about that party.
I calculate that 98 percent of all music fans old enough to know this song love it, right from the opening bars -- and it's got one of those openings you recognize instantly, a hypnotically soft guitar riff underlaid with an ominous march-like drumbeat. I'm guessing it was sheer luck on the Turtles' part, but for two minutes and 55 seconds, everything seems to come together just right. For one thing, you'd never expect a song titled "Happy Together" to be in a minor key, and yet it works -- maybe because when you're a teenager, happiness is totally complicated.
The earnest tremble in the lead vocal (was it Howard Kaylan or Mark Volman?) ups the emotional ante too; the guy may think he's happy, but he's also obsessive ("Imagine me and you / I do / I think about you day and night"), not to mention insecure ("If I should call you up / Invest a dime / And you say you belong to me / And ease my mind"). Anyone who's ever been a teenager can sympathize.
I've always gotten tangled up in the pronouns in the third verse: "Me and you / And you and me / No matter how they toss the dice / It had to be / The only one for me is you / And you for me / So happy together." Normally I'd say this was sloppy songwriting, but in this case it's brilliant. It's not because the two lovers are so attuned to each other that they've become one -- no, not at all. It's because adolescents constantly get confused about where their ego ends and someone else's begins; the effect is intensified by the back-up singers, schizophrenically echoing everything he says. And that haunting oboe slithering around beneath the vocals -- you can't be at all sure how those dice are gonna fall.
And yet just listen to how the singer dives hellbent into that grand chorus, with its roller-coaster melodic line: "I can't see me / Loving nobody but you / For all my life." The drummer pounds everything in his set, a horn section blazes in, the back-up singers chime in with the lead vocal, and even though the key is still minor, the mood is ecstatic. Who cares if he really IS going to love her for the rest of his life -- he feels that way NOW, which is all that matters. In the middle eight, the singers get so elated, they burst into a wordless stretch of ba-ba-ba-ba's (those close harmonies, so 1967, borrowed straight from the Byrds and the Mamas and the Papas). The coda builds over a repeated "So happy together" (add in heavier drums, horns, more back-up singers), pushing it higher and higher until it sounds almost feverish. Then suddenly it resolves on a major chord -- and cut. Genius.
Folk-rock was generally too serious for me -- I was too young in the mid-60s to care about the politics, I guess -- so I was glad when the Turtles, and the Lovin' Spoonful, and the Monkees came along to brighten things up. Sure, in the end this catchy pop sound would degenerate into bubblegum (Tommy James and the Shondells were already paving the way; the Archies were waiting in the wings), but there's a lot to be said for the perfectly-produced sub-three-minute pop song with seductive hooks and an unforgettable refrain. Forty years later, I have no idea where Mike OR Mark is . . . but I can still sing every line of this song.
Have a listen: http://www.mp3.com/albums/16558/summary.html?from=4925&tag=albums;title;1&om_act=convert&om_clk=artalb
I wasn't particularly a Turtles fan, but when this song came out in 1967 you couldn't escape it -- and who'd want to? I remember making out to it at a party with a junior-high boyfriend named Mike (in classic junior-high fashion, I secretly liked his best friend Mark better -- that's how happy together Mike and I were). Come to think of it, listening to this song was probably the best thing about that party.
I calculate that 98 percent of all music fans old enough to know this song love it, right from the opening bars -- and it's got one of those openings you recognize instantly, a hypnotically soft guitar riff underlaid with an ominous march-like drumbeat. I'm guessing it was sheer luck on the Turtles' part, but for two minutes and 55 seconds, everything seems to come together just right. For one thing, you'd never expect a song titled "Happy Together" to be in a minor key, and yet it works -- maybe because when you're a teenager, happiness is totally complicated.
The earnest tremble in the lead vocal (was it Howard Kaylan or Mark Volman?) ups the emotional ante too; the guy may think he's happy, but he's also obsessive ("Imagine me and you / I do / I think about you day and night"), not to mention insecure ("If I should call you up / Invest a dime / And you say you belong to me / And ease my mind"). Anyone who's ever been a teenager can sympathize.
I've always gotten tangled up in the pronouns in the third verse: "Me and you / And you and me / No matter how they toss the dice / It had to be / The only one for me is you / And you for me / So happy together." Normally I'd say this was sloppy songwriting, but in this case it's brilliant. It's not because the two lovers are so attuned to each other that they've become one -- no, not at all. It's because adolescents constantly get confused about where their ego ends and someone else's begins; the effect is intensified by the back-up singers, schizophrenically echoing everything he says. And that haunting oboe slithering around beneath the vocals -- you can't be at all sure how those dice are gonna fall.
And yet just listen to how the singer dives hellbent into that grand chorus, with its roller-coaster melodic line: "I can't see me / Loving nobody but you / For all my life." The drummer pounds everything in his set, a horn section blazes in, the back-up singers chime in with the lead vocal, and even though the key is still minor, the mood is ecstatic. Who cares if he really IS going to love her for the rest of his life -- he feels that way NOW, which is all that matters. In the middle eight, the singers get so elated, they burst into a wordless stretch of ba-ba-ba-ba's (those close harmonies, so 1967, borrowed straight from the Byrds and the Mamas and the Papas). The coda builds over a repeated "So happy together" (add in heavier drums, horns, more back-up singers), pushing it higher and higher until it sounds almost feverish. Then suddenly it resolves on a major chord -- and cut. Genius.
Folk-rock was generally too serious for me -- I was too young in the mid-60s to care about the politics, I guess -- so I was glad when the Turtles, and the Lovin' Spoonful, and the Monkees came along to brighten things up. Sure, in the end this catchy pop sound would degenerate into bubblegum (Tommy James and the Shondells were already paving the way; the Archies were waiting in the wings), but there's a lot to be said for the perfectly-produced sub-three-minute pop song with seductive hooks and an unforgettable refrain. Forty years later, I have no idea where Mike OR Mark is . . . but I can still sing every line of this song.
Have a listen: http://www.mp3.com/albums/16558/summary.html?from=4925&tag=albums;title;1&om_act=convert&om_clk=artalb
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