Popcorn Double Feature: R. Dean Taylor: “Indiana Wants Me”/Tony Christie: “I Did What I Did For Maria”

I’m not sure what was in the air to create this situation, but as you dear reader, can see, there’s not one but two men facing their ends here; men who took the law into their own hands, because of something that happened to their wives.  Vigilante chic certainly was part of this (particularly in the US); after the summer of love comes the fall of ass-kicking, or in these cases, death-dealing.  The morbidity rate is high here, with three dead people at the end, maybe four if the Indiana State police happen to consider their fugitive armed and dangerous. 

Of course these songs succeeded because these stories are practically the oldest ones around.  Honor, betrayal, slander, revenge:  Christie invokes the Bible, Taylor simply says that the man he killed (deliberately, I’ve decided, not accidentally or as a crime of passion) said something to his wife he really, really shouldn’t have said.  This moment might well distract the listener from the sirens at the start and finish, not to mention the unprecedented gunfire at the end – what on earth did the (now) dead man say? 

This is the black hole of the song, and the rest of the lyrics just end up getting sucked through it.  He’s sorry – terribly sorry – that she’s had so much shame to deal with, and he’s sorry to see the man he’s become.  Well, isn’t that nice. The fact that he’s a father as well is something that, um, maybe he should have thought about before killing the other guy?  What could he have possibly said to her that would justify murder?  Something about her, her family, her reputation, what?  I don’t want to get too obsessed with this, but unless this woman has led a rather sheltered life, she has probably dealt with enough insults and catcalls to deal, however she sees fit, with this one.  No, I suspect that the man was the real target here, not his wife; that the slur was somehow really aimed at him, but said to her. 

Beyond that I can’t really speculate, as the song focuses more on how the narrator is sorry, and how they have found him out at last (who knows how long he’s been hiding out – I always see him in a shack or old farm building in Kentucky somewhere).  The gunfire suggests that he’s dead, or that he soon will be; if this song could be compared to an aria from an opera, which I think it can, then it’s almost inevitable that he will die, whether being killed or killing himself (which would only add to his wife’s shame, but is sadly a strong possibility).  The strings saw away (this song is like the ugly flipside of Tommy Roe’s “Dizzy”) and the band marches along, clearly on his side.  He wishes he could talk to her; but what on earth would he say?  Why has he been running away instead of just calling the cops and turning himself in*?  Hmm, maybe this death wasn’t as premeditated as I first supposed it to be.  And yet words were said; maybe there was a fight, and some blunt instrument was handy – a kitchen knife, perhaps?  And in his own shame and defiance, he ran away, leaving his wife (whose shame in all this is perhaps presumed, but whose life is most certainly at this point miserable) to tidy up, as it were. 

The scenarios are endless, and the husband’s remorse is touching, but he meant to do it.  That he ran away makes him look, I’m afraid, like a coward; the music is desperately heroic, dramatic, and in some way is coming after him as surely as the state police are.  He can’t go back to Indiana so Indiana is conveniently going after him; he must figure a lonely death in another state beats a trial and the death penalty there.  He tries to appeal to us through his remorse, but that black hole makes it all but impossible to really figure out how justified his actions are.  At bottom, though, they’re repulsive – if the guy he killed was really so awful, why does he talk so little about him?  Was this a last-straw situation, had he been saying things and spreading rumors for months?  Or is the narrator of this song someone who is a bit too easily offended himself?  I can’t feel sorry for him – for his family, sure, but not him.  His last letter says too much and yet too little; he has taken matters into his own hands and isn’t happy with the result.  The story is old, but somehow the song asks us to sympathize with the narrator, and I can’t; he seems to be justifying what he did after the fact, almost as if he had a beef with this other guy for another reason entirely (perhaps) and this insult to his wife was his “reason” to go after him.  I cannot help but remain suspicious here, which suits the early 70s just fine (thus it was a hit) – because after the 60s’ betrayals and fallouts, who could be trusted?  And so, vigilantes sprouted up in music and movies, some proud and brave, and others unable to do anything but run**.

The world of Tony Christie is a much more bearable one, though just as deadly, because the man is avenging a death; his wife wasn’t just insulted but (it’s insinuated) tortured and perhaps even worse; and so the scales tip this way and that, and the whole thing has the ease of a mathematical equation:  3-1-1-1=0.  First the wife dies, then the murderer, and now, the widow, in what sounds like the Old West (the heroic horns here could be from the 50s, as could the song) prepares to die.  The narrator walks into town, to the designated street, and everyone hides, as he coolly and calmly waits for his foe.  It is all very theatrical; the ease of the song tells us there was no contest, the death was quick and neat, and the song is one heard en route to the gallows; Maria’s death has been avenged, his own death is one he is not afraid of (the Lord is invoked in both these songs, in the first it’s to help him escape, the second when he is happy to join Him). 

Christie sings it with his usual gusto, and his whole demeanor is not one of struggle but ease, as if this whole thing isn’t real but some sort of folk tale, where the narrator and Maria are reunited and the bad guy has no one but himself to blame for what happened.  There’s no anguish in the narrator’s story, it is as if he has realized that this is his destiny, and he is just doing what he has to do.  He doesn’t think; he acts.  The whole story could take place, from start to finish, over two or three days; the narrator doesn’t sound like the brooding type, and you kind of wonder where the police are in this town to arrest and then hang the culprit himself.  The police, who are so feared and dreaded in the first song, simply don’t exist in this town, it seems; and so the narrator has to do the dirty work himself. 

He doesn’t seem to mind; as he walks to his death he has no one to talk to (unlike the narrator in “I’ve Gotta Get A Message To You”) – the slate is clean, his conscience is clear, there’s nothing more to be done than finish the equation.  He doesn’t imagine anyone mourning him, missing him, even noticing his actions.  He simply says he did what he did for Maria, which is noble on one hand and sad on the other.  Is there no one else in his life who cares about him?  Was there no one else in town, even?  This whole song has the weird effect of an episode of The Prisoner, the one set in a western town where nothing is as real as it seems***.  It is hard to believe the simplicity and flat quality of the song, especially since Maria herself is not described in the least, beyond her name.  Vengeance is the thing, the only thing, and again I have to wonder at why this is all taking place, and just who the murderer is; but everything is boiled down to the basics here, so simple as to dampen and dull any real interest.

Next up:   no deaths, mercifully, but what on earth is going on?        

*The narrator of “Delilah” doesn’t run away, he’s too upset and maybe crazy to do so.

**Taylor was inspired to write this after seeing Bonnie & Clyde; perhaps the fact that he’s on the run from The Man is the most important thing here.  Taylor is Canadian, which adds a thin layer here of sheer survivalism, as if he's been a Worried Man for some time now (pace Greil Marcus on The Band).        

***If you haven't seen "Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling", it works perfectly well by itself; though seen in context it's even better.

Sweet Escape: Neil Diamond: "Cracklin' Rosie"

You might be wondering by now where on earth regular love songs have gotten to in the charts; are they all hiding away?  It has been a strange year, with lovers, when they show up at all, pleading rather than praising, and even “Can’t Help Falling In Love” comes across, the way Williams does it, as a joyous complaint.  (The #1s don’t concern themselves much with love either, besides “Love Grows [Where My Rosemary Goes]” on the one hand and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” on the other*.)  So here we are, alone, looking for fun.  Hmm, what to do?

Console yourself the way Neil Diamond does, with some nice wine, that’s what.  By far the most sparkling (ahem) song in a while, Diamond sings and writes a song full of baba-ba-ba-ba-bas and optimism, the strength and sweetness of the song balanced by his lyrics, which come from…Canada!  Yes, or rather YES as Diamond would sing it.  He visited a tribe there – which one I don’t know, as there are many** – and found that there were more men than women there, so the men without women would sit around and drink Cracklin’ Rosie – have ‘her’ as their date, so to speak.  If there is any pathos in this, it comes early, the "twilight train" part is gruffly sung, his temporary sorrow leading him to a state of near-rebellious joy where the wine is appreciated and celebrated, the “store-bought woman” makes him sing and perhaps brings him to a near-euphoric state – “Play it now!” he sings, as if he is becoming the music itself as he is drinking.  He may not have a woman, but the wine is bringing him inspiration, is his muse; his consolation for being alone.  Diamond goes quiet and sings to the bottle itself, “you got the way to make me happy” as if it was a woman; no wonder it would be easy to mishear this song and think it was actually about one.  Together they are going to “set the world right” and make problems go away; and after this rough year, who can blame him for wanting to escape with some wine? 

To say this is a memorable song is an understatement; Diamond needed a hit and wrote something with so many hooks that it could not help but be a hit everywhere, including being his first real hit – as an artist and performer – in the UK***.  The warmth and realism in the song – the sudden stops and starts in it, the exhortations, are like those of someone who has already been drinking, someone who has been in this position before and doesn’t actually mind it that much.  The guitar hums and plays, the night is long but he is most definitely not alone.  This is a song of relief, joy, community even; things may not be perfect, but upon reflection – and a glass or two – they really aren’t all that bad either.  This is the most wholehearted love song this year, one of satisfaction and need, a kind of reassurance that a lot of people, in tribes or elsewhere, could relate to:  wine as a source of joy and comfort, a kind of companion.  This is, again, an ancient kind of joy, and as long as the drinking doesn’t get out of hand, an honourable one. 

Next up:  the year expires, so to speak.

*Yes, I know Elvis’ “The Wonder of You” should count, but this is him singing to his audience about how much they love him; and Dana’s “All Kinds of Everything” is a Eurovision rehash of “My Favorite Things.” (One I like, by the way.) "In The Summertime" is about looking for a woman, which isn't quite the same thing.   

**My guess is that they are in Ontario, perhaps Six Nations; if they are making the wine themselves then they have to live somewhere grapes can grow, as they do in southern Ontario.  (To this day when I hear the phrase “six nations” I don’t think of rugby, I think of Canada.)

***From Tap Root Manuscript, wherein Diamond does that world music thing before it became hip; the second side is a suite of Africa-inspired songs.  (I should add this is an NME #2.) 

Come Together, All Together: Plastic Ono Band: "Give Peace A Chance"

"You see I'm shy and aggressive, so I have great hopes for what I do with my work and I also have great despair that it's all pointless and it's shit."

John Lennon, 1970.


By 1969 it was clear that The Beatles, as such, were over; that their impact on music had been felt and refracted so many times that they were living in their very own echo chamber of themselves, and everyone wanted out, one way or another. George Harrison did a solo soundtrack album Wonderwall Music in 1968, and from that moment onwards there was a rather loud ticking clock in the room that was hard to ignore. The Beatles as a myth, a legend, a force, was beginning to override the Beatles as four musicians, and one by one they began to snatch their lives back, however they could. As anyone who has been in a similar situation knows, when there are divorces and weddings and family life in general comes more to the fore, previous strong alliances can sometimes falter. Paul and Linda got married in March 1969, as did John and Yoko Ono. That The Beatles started up Apple in '68 also put another spoke in the wheel, so to speak, as business, not music, took up more of their time.

But still, they were The Beatles, and with Billy Preston had the biggest #1 of '69, and what they did still mattered, on vinyl and celluloid. Try as they did to get away from themselves, the public still wanted and needed them, worldwide. They were the effective spokesmen for the revolution, mainly because of John Lennon's "shy and aggressive" attitude, which is summed up with this song perfectly. Is it a folk song? A protest song? Can it be judged against anything else?

John and Yoko had been in Amsterdam, doing their honeymoon bed-in** for peace; they wanted to do it again in the US but were denied entry, and so went to Montreal to continue their protest, and on June 1st a throwaway statement by Lennon had evolved to the point where everyone from Allen Ginsberg to Murray the K to Petula Clark to the Smothers Brothers showing up at room 1742 at La Reine Elizabeth Hotel to sing along, clapping and banging on whatever was available. It is a simple a song as Lennon, who loved simplicity, wrote; he wanted to write a new popular protest song, and so he did*.

It should not be judged a failure ("pointless") because there is still war in the world; peacemakers are best involved in what the British call "the long game" wherein short-term successes (despite Lennon's claim in the song that peace could come tomorrow if it's demanded- alas the warmongers don't stop that suddenly, and the Vietnam War, to name one, went on pointlessly for years) are just that, short-term. Lennon wins here as he is self-deprecating, using sharp irony to say, hey, isn't peace worth at least a chance? Try it out, you might like it! So apart from the stompy-stompy sing-a-long aspect, easy enough for anyone to join in, there is the weird feeling that this is a no-bullshit country song, with "Everybody's talkin' bout (insert famous people, actions, etc.)" definitely NOT being the point; the point is peace, and celebrity and such is so much hooey. (That celebrity arose to be the point in the 70s is one of the worst things about the 70s, really, and Lennon wanted out of that circus.)

It also doesn't hurt that the song is insanely catchy, that it was recorded with borrowed equipment for a near-indie roughness (not produced as such, but recorded by Andre Perry - as if Phil Spector would ever record anything outside of a studio) that suits the song very well. This is a happening, a protest, a new anthem; it was picked up immediately not just in shops but in protests, which was the real success - not commercially (though that always helps) but as a song that the people sung, that became a phrase for the revolution, plain and simple. That is what Lennon wanted, and if it's not sung that much anymore, it's because other media - including the one you're reading - have been taken up as new mediums for protest. (Ono says Lennon would have used Twitter to protest, and I don't doubt her.)

At this time, only John and Yoko could have pulled off a cross-Atlantic pop hit that was a direct protest record; but then it was what could only be expected, and it was meant to be a hit. The Beatles were disintegrating, the band caught up in too many things to keep up (their cool response to Ono being one aspect), but Lennon's solo career effectively starts here, with Live Peace in Toronto 1969 to come (where "Give Peace a Chance" is performed, this time with Eric Clapton helping out).

The 60s were nearly over, man had walked on the moon***, and the epochal month of August, with its highs and lows, was about to happen. The cover of Abbey Road was taken on the 8th, the Manson family murders happened the next two days in Los Angeles, and a week later in upstate New York, Woodstock gathered the tribes together for a much bigger sing-a-long. The center, as some noted, could not hold; but the American turmoil was not felt so strongly in the UK, where The Beatles were about to disappear, Abbey Road being their last album, one they knew would be their last. By now it must have seemed as if the 70s could not come soon enough, but here are John and Yoko in bed, singing for peace, like two escaped birds of paradise resting on an ordinary tree branch, with other birds chiming in for the dawn chorus. It is a song to remember.



*It is credited, as Beatles songs usually were, to Lennon/McCartney, when in fact McCartney had nothing to do with it; the credit seems to be a thank-you to Paul for helping out with "The Ballad of John and Yoko" on short notice.

**I helplessly always think of this by Eugenius when I think of bed-ins. I like to think Lennon would have loved Eugenius.

***I also cannot help but think Lennon would have loved The Onion.

The Waiting Game: The Mamas & The Papas: "Dedicated To The One I Love"

To be attached to someone and yet not be able to be with them is a difficult state; even while you know you will be together again, the time seems endless and empty and yes, slightly depressing. All you do is think of the Other, and if you are so moved, you can write for the Other and console yourself by recording the time in your own way. (My husband did just that and the result is, if I may say so, this very fine book.)

The Mamas & The Papas were a folk group who had aspirations to doing more than hanging out in Greenwich Village; they wanted in on pop, and brought to it a multi-voiced armoury that stood for (in retrospect) nothing less than the collective joys and sorrows of everyone who listened. Even in their happiest songs there is lurking sorrow, and vice versa; and so this song was utterly perfect for them, being one of alternating hope and sorrow, sunlight and darkness. By the time it was a hit, the band were having problems of the sort that foreshadowed those of Fleetwood Mac a decade later - an affair was found out, emotions were tangled up, the affair ended and unease and (on Denny Doherty's side, heavy drinking) began to take a toll on the group. As you might expect, a band so dependent on literal harmonizing must have harmony outside the studio as well, and at this time this was pretty much impossible; for one thing, John Phillips and the band's producer Lou Adler were helping to put together the Monterey International Pop Festival, along with a few others (including Paul McCartney).

So there is weight here, with Michelle Phillips singing lead, she who had been unfaithful and for a while was thrown out of the group; Monterey may have heralded the Summer of Love, but love is, alas, more than just a good good feeling that you can share with flowers and peace signs. Love is what kept most people going in the 60s (as ever) and love for many then as now meant waiting. Not just waiting to be with the Other, but waiting for a time when being with the Other would not cause so much waiting to begin with*. The Shirelles did their version in '61, but the song was written in the early 50s by Lowman Pauling (guitarist) and Ralph Bass (producer) of the still-underrated The "5" Royales. In them you can hear the longing and frustration even clearer, as the 60s (so to speak) hadn't happened yet, and the longing is for something even bigger and more important, in a way, than being with the Other. It is the darkest hour, the worst time; the stars are the only light visible...and no one is having an easy time of it. The singer might not reach the Other soon, Love might not be perfect but there is the promise, based on hope, that things will change. When? Who knows.

With The Mamas & The Papas version, it is a more straight-forward expression of lovesickness, hopes and fears balanced (the trickiest part being the bear-trap line "Love can never be exactly like we want it to be" which is sung as if tiptoeing past one, as if this is a fact, sure, but one that is going to be avoided, for now). The harmonies are strong and vibrant as ever, but as the song ends and the voices separate, there is a feeling that something indeterminate has once again ended, or perhaps been set free. Maybe this is the end of all that waiting; the end of all that dreadful insomnia and emptiness. Maybe now something is going to happen. This group were the collective voice of that longing, and began to unravel along with the decade; this song is their last big statement on how difficult love can be, how beautiful and sad at the same time.

That we had this on our wedding cd was an acknowledgement that we had been apart for too long, and an unwitting premonition that we would be apart once more for a lot longer. It was a terrible and stressful time, our time apart, but at least we could communicate with each other; this song rests on prayer alone, and is a prayer itself.

Next up: a song about looking down at a city instead of looking up to the stars.



*Lest we forget, many are separated by war at this point, and have been for years...