Mysterious Hillbilly Ways: Johnny Duncan and the Blue Grass Boys: "Last Train to San Fernando"

1957 was the last year - the last official year, at any rate - of skiffle's popularity. It may sound a bit quaint now, what with being made by a bunch of guys with washboards and fiddles and acoustic guitars in basements and cellars, all singing about things they had never actually experienced (rural American culture). But it was fast, exciting, rude and raw - a deliberate reproof to 'good' singing and 'classy' arrangements by orchestras and such. It was the liberating and inspiring music in the UK before rock 'n' roll hit, and it continued for a good year to keep prodding and providing the youth with a way in - not a sexy way, always, but a way in nevertheless.

How appropriate, then, for this big skiffle hit to be sung by an actual American? Duncan was born in a coal mining camp in Tennessee and has the high, pleasant nasal whine of a man who has grown up hearing Appalachian music since his birth; he sings as clear as a bell. Musically, it's a song that speeds up, sounding just like a train - dum...dum-dum-dum...dum-dum-dum-dum until it's going full speed, sounding cheery and free, but the warning is constant: "If you miss - this one - they're never be another one ("bidi-bidi-bum-bum" comments Duncan) "to San Fernando."

Now, as usual, the train in question is both a real one and a metaphor for something present that won't be around for long - in this case, the chance of romance and marriage to a woman who (as far as I can tell; the lyrics are a bit odd) is having an affair with the narrator and "marries into high society" but is still willing to slip away with him if she gets bored. (The song was written in '57; for some reason I keep picturing the woman as Grace Kelly or maybe Ava Gardner.) There's a fine guitar solo in the middle and then after it's done the song slows down, the train comes to a halt and Duncan makes a sound like a last gentle blast of steam: "Pssshhhh...."

Anyone who knows me knows I love train songs; in fact I think there's no such thing as a bad train song (not very good ones, sure, but no truly awful ones). This skiffle song of cross-class love was a hit because it's so damn catchy, to be sure, but it has that same bold confidence (without the extraterrestrial shock) as Elvis' "Mystery Train." (Inexplicably, "Mystery Train" only reached #25 on the UK charts. Other totally awesome songs to reach this position include "Sunshine of Your Love" by Cream, "Cryin'" by Roy Orbison, "Showroom Dummies" by Kraftwerk, "Could It Be Magic" by Barry Manilow, "Diamonds and Pearls" by Prince and, um, "The Longest Time" by Billy Joel. Maybe I should do a blog?? Hmmmm....)

Skiffle was busy going down its own inevitable track by now, making way for other Americans to come in and sit a spell with their own William Carlos Williams-ish "pure products"; Duncan himself eventually ended up in Australia, as so many UK-based entertainers did, and yet he was back in the studio just months before his death in 2000. His genial strangeness (he looks just like he sounds - a bit like Lyle Lovett, in fact) liberated maybe just a few more kids to think - "hey, I don't have to look great or make perfect sense to be accepted." And bless him for that.

Love in Limbo: Pat Boone: "Love Letters In The Sand"

As the saying goes, there are two kinds of people - in this case, they are separate in the ways they look at the past. The first kind regards it with respect and affection, but they keep their distance from it, too. The past is valuable to them for what it can give them, the lessons and ideas and the whole treasure trove of curious and wondrous strange things 'they' did 'then'. The past here is connected to the present in a million ways, very much like a piece of fabric.

The other kind is much more sentimental and even nostalgic, to the point where the past is far more alive to them than the present and the idea of weaving the past into the future is nearly unimaginable. They may even try to do the impossible - to bring the past back and have things 'just as they were', as much as possible.

This song sits awkwardly between these two kinds of people; its very nonchalance - the first thing you hear is whistling, after all - points to a kind of casual 'keep calm and carry on' attitude that either betrays a rather cold-hearted figure who is unable or unwilling to commit (who writes letters in the sand? The very medium, if I can call it that, suggests impermanence, which goes against the "vow" made on the beach. I know very well that (young) lovers can and do find significance in the most ephemeral and trivial of things, but it's not like writing implements and paper didn't exist in 1957).

There is also the chance, of course, that Boone is in a kind of mindset wherein a broken vow doesn't really mean that much in the greater scheme of things - not so much a Buddhist acceptance of loss as more a Christian conviction that this girl obviously wasn't righteous enough for him, so there is no love lost. Boone sings so lightly and politely that it is hard to hear any heartbreak at all in the song; he sings like a wooden doorstop, all whistling near-indifference, the band behind him fruitlessly trying to inject some notion of what sensual walks by the surf have been lost. But Boone remains by the ocean, seemingly in a kind of limbo, somehow both nostalgic and cut off at the same time. (For those of you wondering, yes there is more Pat Boone to come, but not for a little while.)

(It is worth noting that this was a big transatlantic hit song; it is also worth noting that the two songs which leapfrogged it to number one were all about sexual urgency and intense hormonal longing - "All Shook Up" by Elvis and "Diana" by Paul Anka. Once again, the number two song is utterly in opposition to what is at the top.)

The Word 'Love': Russ Hamilton: "We Will Make Love"

It almost goes without saying - but I will say it anyway - that language is a soft, squishy and supremely malleable thing, particularly the English language. It is a ravenous, ever-changing beast which, in the words of a future subject of MSBWT, may well be a virus from outer space.

Music has been part of this viral experience, of course. "What did s/he just say/sing?!?" is a subject of debate, confusion and disbelief for some time now. (Even when lyrics can be deciphered, they still may not make any sense, of course; one of my favorite lyricists, Stephen Malkmus, has a way of making the commonplace...not so common, to say the least.)

Then there's of course the way you sing something. Russ Hamilton, at first glance, has got a pretty four-square ahem ahem title here. But the song - and particularly the way he sings it - is as fresh and pure as the first day of spring. You just know that when he and his girl (clearly they are young sweethearts) go to that secluded place they are going to do something, but not anything that will lead to a hasty trip down the aisle. Making love here sounds warm and cosy and reassuring, in part to the golden syrup-voiced Hamilton and in part to the gently swaying music, which is close to a waltz, if it isn't one already.

The drama in the song comes from the fact that the narrator has to go away - he asks his beloved to be faithful, with the promise that they will once again make love in a place far away from where they live, a place they have always dreamed about, "in the clouds up above." I still cannot figure out whether this means he is going away (for the regulation stay in the National Service, perhaps) or something a lot stranger. The music doesn't have any odd key changes or anything that would signify other worldliness, so I can only guess it means they're going to go on some exotic vacation once he returns. But he makes it sound so much like they will be in heaven that the mere act of making love sounds almost redundant. And yet that is what the song is about! Love is clearly not sex here, but some kind of aura that is almost impossible to describe, something so big it transcends the merely physical world and may even last beyond death itself, ultimately.

And so we have our first lesson in love from a Liverpudlian. There will be others, but none will be quite as quietly supernatural as this one.

Perfect Love Forever: Nat King Cole: "When I Fall In Love"

It is a late winter night, or should I say, evening, on a calm and pleasant street. The days are now perceptibly longer and warmer, the branches of trees and hedges all show hopeful buds for the spring. Very slowly they are opening, showing color -a pale green here, a bubblegum pink there. Venus burns steady near the horizon while the moon hangs in a crescent smile.

It feels like spring, but spring is not really here yet - not quite. In this time, there is eagerness for it, but sure enough the winds turn fierce and cold, the rain comes, and a gentle stroll down the street is out of the question.

So it is with weather; and so it can be with the heart. "When I Fall In Love" sounds at first like a romantic song - aah those strings! And it's Nat after all, his voice as warm and soothing as a good bowl of soup. It is a romantic song, but it is conditional - when and if stand like two fences between the narrator and whoever is on the other side. The ultimate - and to some people, frightening - phrase comes right at the beginning: "it will be forever, or I'll never fall in love."

The original version of this song is from a movie set in the Korean War called One Minute To Zero; it is sung by Doris Day, and gives voice to a widow (Ann Blyth) and her soul. She is a UN official who has lost her heroic husband in combat and now who should she run into but Robert Mitchum, who no doubt gives her that look, that smile. During any war, passionate bonds are made for life, bonds of all kinds, but she wonders, could it last? Because if it isn't for life, she's just not interested. (Without having seen it, I can't judge how much a settling-down type Mitchum portrays - my guess is, only a little.)

And so this dreamy song - musically at least - is rather tough, but it is a toughness that is as protective as it must be, given the circumstances. She knows full well what love is, and how she will be when and if it happens to her again. To tender young hearts who have only experienced crushes or infatuations or been boy/girl-crazy, this song may have been a 'romantic' song that they could aspire to, hopefully; for those more hardened to life, it is not so much 'romantic' as it is 'obvious.' Crucially, the 'you' in the song has to feel the same way or there is no falling, no removal of the 'when' and 'if.' (I can well imagine Erich Fromm liking this song, even if he was opposed to the phrase 'to fall in love' - for him you can stand in love, in his mind, falling is too passive.)

Ther have been dozens of covers of this song (one of which I will write about here in the fullness of time), but you may laugh when I tell you, dear readers, of how I first heard it.

It was a spring night (or was it? It felt like it was) and I had a new tape, an odd thing as it was more like an EP than an album. All the songs were done in the studio save for the last one which was recorded live somewhere in the UK before a very responsive audience. The song started up - the band's own song - with drums, bass, guitar and a violin I think, but only after the repeated question (from Shane) about shooting a man in the back. Then the singer comes in, sounding almost as if he is on fire. The song is introduced, then the chorus comes in - and then after the guitar break, all goes relatively quiet as the singer begins to sing other songs. First, James Brown's "Sex Machine" - the band suddenly becomes a post-punk JBs, which shows how good they are. Then The Beatles' "All You Need Is Love" is flattened and sped up, the seemingly daft lyrics being dragged into commonsense. Then, a hush - the band are barely audible as the singer begins "When I Fall In Love" - a song whose sentiments fit neatly back into the band's own song, which they return to pronto, but not until the whole place goes quiet as the singer - yes, it is Ian McCulloch, this is Echo and the Bunnymen - croons as soft and sweet as Nat, giving his soul in a way that U2, their main rivals, have yet to learn. Then as "Do It Clean" roars back into life, Ian's voice goes up and up, to a climactic "Yooooooooouuuuuuuuu-hooo!" And thus the night ends, and the toughness and calm of this song are given a new life, a faithful deliverance.

The Dawning World: Harry Belafonte: "Day-O (Banana Boat Song)"

It may seem ironic - at first - that it took a Manhattan-born, partially-raised-in-Jamaica-when-young aspiring actor to bring music from the Caribbean to the UK charts, but that is how things stood in the winter of '57. (This isn't to say that the recent immigrants from Jamaica, Trinidad & Tobago, etc. weren't already playing live, recording and so on - they were, of course, but they hadn't crossed over yet to the UK charts.)

This song well precedes itself. Few songs are as memorable on first hearing as this one; from the proclamation "Day-O!" to the more than understandable refrain "Daylight come and me wan' go home" to the pleading/swaggerific "Come Mr. Tallyman, tally me bananas" - this is the song of a man who is proud of his work, as arduous and dangerous as it is (what other song mentions the "highly deadly black tarantula"? - none, I'm guessing). But he is at the end of his shift, he wants to get his pay and get some sleep after a long night on the docks, broken only by the odd swig of rum and dodging those darn spiders. "Day-O! Daaaaay-O! Day-is-a-day-is-day-is-a-daaaaay-ooooo" he sings, grateful for those rosy fingers of dawn; there is no sign here of the weary fatalism & murderousness of "Sixteen Tons." It could well be that the dockworker in question has relatives now living in England (I can see him now, reading his post in the early afternoon when he wakes up) and feels alternately happy and wistful, depending on their letters. Is hauling a six-foot or seven-foot bunch of bananas in the middle of the night better than living somewhere cold, rainy and, well, different? Perhaps it is, for him; but he might just go see for himself, and visit them too, one day. He knows he can't be a dockworker all his life, after all...

Add Water And Stir: Pat Boone: "Don't Forbid Me"

As soon as it was obvious that the youth of the US were interested in what was called "race music," and some profit could be made from it (if it was re-recorded in a properly sanitized for your protection fashion) up popped Pat Boone, a clean-cut reasonably cute lad, to do the job. He was instant mashed potatoes in comparison to anyone else (for this song, esp., Elvis but also Charles Singleton, who wrote it); again, for this song he tries as hard as he can (with his own sorta-kinda Jordanaires) to sound just like Elvis. Clearly this worked, as it was a success, but the idea of Pat kissing me (to keep my lips from freezing, you see) let alone holding me does not, so to speak, spin my propellers. That many girls did respond to his warm pleas is proof that there has always been, and always will be, a big segment of the record-buying population that likes the safe, secure and square guy over the daredevil dirt dude every time. And yet no matter how much you may enjoy instant mashed potatoes, they are soft mush compared to the real thing. I am far from done with Mr. Boone, but in the meantime I must note that the song which kept him from number one was "Young Love" by Tab Hunter - not even in the arena of cute American boys could Boone win out; and next time we meet him here, his competition won't even be American. It's 1957 now, and things are starting to accelerate.

Someone Somewhere Is Having A Good Time: Winifred Atwell: "Let's Have a Party" and Frankie Vaughan: "The Green Door"

And now, some more housekeeping. In the rush to get through 1953 I omitted an important number two, perhaps knowing somehow it would happily sip its figurative drink until I got to it years later.

We are now entering the Age of Meek; the boy from the Forest of Dean has been puzzling over recorded and transmitted sounds for 24 years now - and is an engineer, by occupation, though his energy is so strong that he is, in fact, a producer for both these songs. (This is certainly a good case for the number two songs being more representative of what was going on than the number ones.) Meek innovated, he obsessed, and with these records he did what he could to enchant and bend the ear of the listener.

Atwell's medley (side one: "If You Knew Suzie/The More We Are Together/That's My Weakness Now/Knees Up Mother Brown" side two: "Daisy Bell/Boomps a Daisy/She Was One of the Early Birds/Three O'Clock in the Morning") is a deliberate and giddy throwback to the saloons of old, her piano treated and thus altered as much as John Cage's were across the ocean. It sounds as if there is a drummer on the song but he just keeps time; the rest is Atwell's loose player-piano style, providing bass and guitar, in effect, if not voice. However a guitar does come in on the second side, sounding sor all the world not like a guitar at all but the bleeping bloops of a machine - a very primitive synth. If you ever wondered what the precedent was for the cantina scene in Star Wars, this is it. Atwell would have fit in fine there, just as she did in post-war UK.

Three years later and another party is being held: one, I suspect, even more avant-garde or off-limits than Atwell's come-one come-all shindig. With "The Green Door" we have a party we are not allowed to join, one maddeningly interesting (to the point that our hapless and excited narrator can't sleep) but mysteriously forbidding. There's a "hot piano" behind the door, and laughter, but there is a sense that these are just the start of the intrigue, and not the point. That "Joe" sent him is met with derision (a nice coincidence there and yes, ironic as can be, too) points to the fact that our narrator may not be as pitiable as you might think. He seems to enjoy the whole frustrating ordeal (whenever he sings "door" it's as "doo-orr-AAAH!" as if some vital part of his anatomy was being, um, squeezed). The song is quiet and swinging at first, then big band brassy, then quiet again as he is once more sleepless (does he live nearby? The green door in question seems to become more and more figurative as the song goes on). Then it ends abruptly with the cry "Green door!" in longing and happy frustration. There are no proto-synth moments in the song, but Meek - a gay man in a resolutely straight world, which in 1956 meant that he was, in effect, illegal (or to be more accurate, he could be who he was as long as The Man was ignorant of the fact) gave this version of the song an extra dose of oomph that goes beyond the va-va-voom recording itself. I am not a Meekologist, but I cannot help but see this as the first in many songs produced by him that are full of longing and anger; joyous here, but increasingly darker and deeper, far from the aroused insomnia of Vaughan.