When I'm Out In The Street I Just Feel All Right: Max Bygraves: "Meet Me On The Corner"

Courting: it’s not a word that gets used much these days, but in the 50s I can well imagine it was still the term used when a couple were getting to know each other, the one actively pursuing the other, forever needing and wanting some kind of special place and moment and above all, privacy. In a Britain that was still in utilitarian mode, where everyone (save for those who could move out and students living in residence) lived at home. (Come to think of it, even at Oxford or Cambridge there were strict rules about who could visit, and when.) Thus, the easy appeal of this song – the only way to have any real time to yourself with someone else is to – paradoxically – go out at night and meet the loved one under a lamp post, once the streets were quiet, perchance to go to the fish & chip shop, the cinema, the record store – or maybe just walk slowly down a street nearby, window-shopping and talking moonily about this and that. All the free or near-free pleasures of urban life are implied in this song, as well as freedom, at least for a short while, from home and work. Bygraves, in the break (where he sounds like a certain American we'll be hearing from soon), tries his best to sound like something else – some major smooching – might also be in store; his voice is a little too jovial to believe anything more is going to happen, and the tenor of the song implies that nothing else is expected of him, or her. Courtship is a delicate process of give and take, moments of gradual learning and compassion; none of those can really breathe unless there is a certain place and space to be yourself, free to walk and talk as you please. Not all had this freedom in ’55 (it could be the couple just meets at the corner and doesn’t go anywhere, after all), but you can sense even through the Bygraves' imperturable shield of happiness that a new generation is itching to get out and be free, in all ways.

A Small Break To (Re)Introduce Some Basic Ideas

I am now going to take a wee break in the proceedings here to tidy up a few things – in short, to mention some things that have been rattling around in my mind.

One of them is to say very directly that the reason the songs on this blog don’t have marks – x number of stars, a grade, a mark out of ten – is that these songs have already been saddled (if I can put it that way) with a number. That is more than enough. When I was growing up, I read Creem magazine and I wish I’d copied out & memorized the late great Rick Johnson’s reasoning against giving out marks; he basically thought they were useless and that the writing should be the thing. I realize this goes against the numbers-obsessed world of music writing, and that grades are fun to argue about…but when I listen to a song, I am not a judge in an Olympic sense, let alone a dog show one or even one at a local fair, where pies and cakes are put into competition. Derek Bailey once was interviewed (in)famously for The Wire's Invisible Jukebox and his comments on how “recording’s fine if it wasn’t for fucking records” really hit home – his basic approval of all records on the list as okay, coupled with his greater interest in playing and messing around, put all records into perspective for me. I will be enthusiastic (none of the songs so far has really grabbed me, I’ll admit) and I will protest (I’ve done that already), but the main thing here is to look at these songs and give them some time and space in which to live, and giving them yet another number won’t help them do that.

My mentioning of New Pop has prompted me to also give notice that since I want to write a book about it, I should give it time once in a while as well, in this case, the very beginnings of any musical idea – the grounds from which it sprang, figuratively and literally. When the charts began (can it be a coincidence? Hmm) the future movers and shakers of New Pop started to be born. However, a few were born beforehand – specifically, Robin Scott, Mike Chapman (both spring of ’47), not to mention fellow producers Martin Rushent (’48) Martin Hannett (’48), Trevor Horn (’49) and the ever-wiki-elusive Alan Tarney, who was born under a rock in Adelaide some time in the early 50s. As all Smash Hits fans know, both Adam Ant and Neil Tennant were born in ’54, and Green Gartside and Phil Oakey were born in ’55…New Pop is well and truly on its way, even though most of those concerned so far are babies or children who grew up in a world before rock, but would be well-versed in both pop and rock by the time they wrote their first song or produced their first single.

The Original Thing: The Four Aces: "Love Is A Many Splendored Thing"

Having successfully avoided being stomped to death by the seemingly-endless marching chorale of Mitch Miller, let’s go, dear readers, to a place far more desirable – a high, windy and misty hill. It’s the morning, and no one is around – it is blessedly quiet and beautiful, exactly the kind of place for a lovers’ rendevous. Is the world standing still? Is the man wearing a crown of gold? When the lovers kiss the world indeed does stand still, and when fingers touch, the heart learns to live and sing.

The word ‘splendor’ comes from the Latin word for ‘shine’ – thus, love creates things that are shiny, that reflect back to the world a richer, newer and yet fragile world that may well start on that high and windy hill but also may end there, if circumstances surrounding it – such as, in the case of this novel/movie, the girl’s family – don’t agree that he (a British reporter in the book, but in the movie since he’s played by William Holden, an American one) is an acceptable, desirable mate. Obstacles to love only increase it, however – and if the love has to come to a halt, that doesn’t mean it has to come to an end. Shiny ever-new love, rare and dogged, will continue, just as nature itself does.

This song marks a first here for the list – a song that attempts to define what love ‘is’. Never before, at least in this narrow channel, has love been talked about in any direct way – lovesickness, yes, joy and contentment, sure, but not love itself. (Well okay, but 'amore' is different and what is happening here isn't falling in love, so much as being in love, particularly of the doomed-but-dogged kind.) For those of you wondering when I am going to get to New Pop and then chastising yourself for being too early – well, you’re not. It is exactly this kind of song in particular that New Pop built itself on. (It could be called Original Pop.) Granted, the cliches of love are not a new thing in late ’55, but it is the putting them into a song part that counts. What is love? It is a many-splendored thing. It has many shiny parts (some most definitely yellow), it glows and twinkles and is a power unto itself. It is the same no matter if you are in the exotic world of Hong Kong or London or Pennsylvania, where the Four Aces were from. A high, windy, grassy hill; a clear proclamation to the world; a gentle melody full of soaring notes. The hills may be alive here, but it is the feeling of love, inside and out, that matters.

Sing Along, Kids: Mitch Miller: "The Yellow Rose of Texas"

There can be no doubt, by now, that the apex of the 50s has happened – because Mitch Miller, demigod of all things utterly and completely square, has appeared (some might say finally, others not) here. By ‘apex’ please do not misunderstand my meaning. If there is any orchestrator/producer/tastemaker that typifies the 50s tendency towards fussiness, soppiness, jollity (forced or no) and utter and complete safety, it is, indeed, Mr. Miller. There are probably many reasons why this song was such a hit – its repetitiveness lends towards more washerwoman/policeman whistling, its martial tone is jaunty and odd for what is ostensibly a love song; marching bands all over Texas (and beyond) must have played this in their tooting horns and shrilling pipes glory, with the drummers, as ever, in nearly brutal uniformity. That is what the record sounds like: a marching band with a male chorus singing the praises of the ‘yellow’ rose, while the women join in on the chorus, the whole thing utterly hearty and yet somehow also heartless. Is this what so many wanted? Yes. Why? I am not at all sure. How many UK buyers of this single knew that ‘yellow’ was in reference to the ‘high yellow’ skin of the black woman who is being sung about, whose story is that she either was taken or went voluntarily over to the Mexicans, to act as a distraction so the Texans could attack and win over the army? (She was with the general, or so the story goes.) Probably very few. The martial drums hint at the war, but there is no mention of the story as such, and in fact the heroine sounds like someone walking by the river (the Rio Grande?) waiting for her man to come back from Mexico, as opposed to someone being awaited.

I usually don't have much to say about these songs personally, I know; my own experience of Texas, as such, was brief - on a cross-country trip our family went through the very top part, which I recall was flat and dusty. My father (a Nebraskan) didn't like Texas or Texans in general - he bore them no ill, exactly, but he didn't think they were very bright. (I am thinking he must have formed this opinion while in the Army.) Mitch Miller was not, to put it mildly, the music he or my mother enjoyed, and in any case I was born too late to see his "Sing Along With Mitch" series of follow-the-bouncing-ball proto-karaoke episodes of cheery Americana. I was also too young to know that he had turned down Buddy Holly (a Texan, need I add) in his role as a Columbia Records producer and instead promoted Johnny Mathis. I cannot look back and not call Mr. Miller "The Man" for all his efforts to keep American music on the straight and narrow, but he certainly knew that a lot of people did too like music that was jaunty, regular and yes, easy to sing along with, by yourself or en masse. "The Yellow Rose of Texas" evades the real story of Emily West, for a more general 'we men fight for our noble women' message that was more than palatable in the Cold War; America feels its oats and goes western-crazy and the UK, always open to the 'exotic' US, follows suit. (My father died twenty years ago, but his opinion of Texans would more than likely be the same, given the current administration.) This song is everything good and bad about the 50s; in fact I am going to stretch it and say it pretty much sums up the 20th century, for the most part. Dear readers, things can only get better from here.

The Rest Cure: Cyril Stapleton Orchestra with Julie Dawn: "Blue Star (The Medic Theme)"

It's a weeknight, maybe Monday or Tuesday - the family has had dinner, and afterwards, the newfangled invention in the house - the television set - is turned on and warms up. The big show - or one of them, at any rate - is Medic, the first realistic show set in the world of medicine and hospitals, the forerunner of all shows to follow, from St. Elsewhere to Emergency!, ER to House. I've never seen Medic (it ran for only two seasons, 1954-56), but its general tone of calmness is something I can guess from the theme song, which sounds uncannily like the kind of pretty, restful and burbling brook of sound that a person recovering from an illness would like to hear. Led by the piano, a choir of the awed (like so many hospital well-wishers) aah-ahhs along, with the 50s-requisite string section in tow, like a Muzak Mantovani. The touch is light and caring, restful and easy. (Like ideal hospital food, it is nourishing and somewhat bland.) Then the singer comes in, singing words that are just shy of magnetic poetry, lyrics that show her complete lack of worry and loneliness, now that she has the blue star to gaze upon, a symbol as reassuring to her as other symbols are to other people. Things have been bad; they have perhaps been awful. Now that she sees the star, she can rest easy, knowing everything will be all right. A nation of exhausted people, adults all, who endured the war and the aftermath, watch as week after week, the troubled and ill are helped back to wholeness and happiness. The kids can go out to play; the adults stay in, resting and thankful that they have everything they really need – and a television set, too.

(Thanks to David Belbin for sending this to me.)

Everyone's Got To Learn Sometime: Frank Sinatra: "Learning The Blues"

And here we have, at last you may (or may not) think, Sinatra. He too ran up against the implacable Slim Whitman with “Rose Marie” though whether he cared in particular, I don’t know. And also again, we have a kind of midway point – a standstill, if you will. At this time, married to Ava Gardner, Sinatra was either high or low – contemplative in his melancholy, or carefree and jolly as Zeus or perhaps a more swingin’ Santa Claus. He is in a more swingy mode here, but he is not asking his Other to fly away or go to a party or even promising his eternal & hip love. In this song, he observes, with sympathy, the misery of another person – a man who has been dumped, most likely – first he is in the diner/bar, playing the same love song (‘their’ song no doubt) over and over, getting drunk, and it’s no use; he is, according to Sinatra, learning ‘the blues’ – an odd thing to be cheery about, but it’s all sung in the sense of ‘I’ve been there, I know what it’s like, welcome to the club kid’ – as if the person who bought the record would have Frank’s own blessing to stay up nights and walk the floor, because that’s what heartbroken people do. On the other hand, it might annoy a recent dumpee to have him sing in such a cavalier way about something that is genuinely haunting and painful. The final break-up with Gardner was yet to come; I wonder what he thought of this record (or even if he could) once they were through. But in this song, he was a god looking down from his clouds at the mortal, frail man – he has learned what suffering is, and sees it and recognizes it, maybe even relishes it a little. Sadly, he will be suffering in much the same way, even worse, but that is for another time and song.

The Search For Something Real: Frankie Laine and the Mellomen: "Cool Water"

In the middle of any decade, there is always something of a lull. The first half has passed, the second half has yet to come, and the pause can either come from stagnation, culmination, nostalgia or some combination of all three. Of course, in music there is always someone, somewhere pushing things ahead, but it takes a while for that new idea or noise to make it out of the clubs or garage practices and on to a hit record. In the meantime, the chart meanders along, mini-trends pop up and disappear, while the new thing, whatever it may be, gathers forces and strength. The old, which was once exciting, is now normal, regular even, and maybe even a bit dull.

Thus, we have Frankie Laine out west once more, and this time his agony isn’t caused by The Man or a certain woman but by a simple element: water. (It is as if all his songs could be subtitled Man Vs. Something – in this case, Man Vs. Nature.) He and his mule/horse/beast of general burden Dan are out in the “barren waste” (no explanation as to why they are out there – maybe this is what happens when you don’t have a map or don’t plan ahead when you’re escaping the sheriff) looking for water to drink. There is none to be found. A mirage (something the devil causes, apparently) appears and Frankie tells Dan to ignore it, but I doubt if Dan does. (I’ve been out in the desert and mirages can appear even if you’re not thirsty; they’re a natural phenomenon.) He asks Dan if he can see the tree nearby some water, but Laine’s voice is so big and stentorian that it sounds as if he is making up said tree, or is perhaps hallucinating it – yet another mirage in the relentless dry weather. It is hard to say – the song sounds as if it has a happy ending, but with the Mellomen’s deep ‘water…water’ it sounds as if the search has almost driven the singer to desperation. Or maybe there is water, but the journey itself is far from over.

Laine sings with conviction and a real thirst in his voice; now was a time when country and western music was popular – this song didn’t get to number one because of Slim Whitman, and a few other country standards were kicking around the charts at the same time. I am not sure why this happened, though a clue could come from, of all things, post-war immigration – specifically, from Ireland to Liverpool and Manchester. The Irish have always loved their country music; add them to Scotland and you have a formidable number of people who can relate in some ways to the search for something real and satisfying, cool and clear. “Cool Water” is a song of hope above all, and determination to “carry on” despite any illusions. Things may well have been at a standstill in the UK (as opposed to the US), but something was happening underneath the country and folk that was about to emerge on record. It will take a few more entries to get to it, but it will make this song seem – well, duller than it really is.