The Infinite Jukebox: Mary Hopkin’s ‘Temma Harbour’

Looking back, it seemed clear that the biggest mistake Mary Hopkin made with her short commercial career was to agree to be the UK’s representative in the 1970 Eurovision Song Contest. Though she brought a sweet and honest voice to the chosen song, ‘Knock Knock Who’s There?’, and came second only to Ireland’s Dana with the equally sweet and innocent (and superior) ‘All Kinds of Everything’, it was a last hurrah for the young Welsh woman discovered through Opportunity Knocks and mentored by Paul McCartney.
Hopkin was never totally comfortable being positioned as a pop chanteuse, neither with McCartney nor his successor, the commercial producer Mickie Most, trying to direct her music. She came from a folk-singing background and family and, after her Eurovision song, and a final, low-charting top 20 hit, she simply disappeared from the business, and has chosen her own musical path and projects ever since.
I heard ‘Those were the Days’ when it was a hit, and often, but then it was so ubiquitous, there were creatures beyond the orbit of Saturn’s outermost moons who could have hummed it note perfect, but I don’t know if I ever heard the similarly-McCartney-penned follow-up, ‘Goodbye’. For my first sustained exposure to Hopkin’s singing, I came to ‘Temma Harbour’.
It’s the forgotten one, the single between the McCartney songs and Eurovision, forever overlooked. To me, it’s first and foremost a part of that period of the first, undirected enthusiasm, my baptism in music, and of more significance than any of her other singles could be, but it’s also more than that. There’s a freshness, a spirit to the song, a sense of the place about which Hopkin sings.
The song was written by drummer and singer Robert Wilson, who took the name of Phil Kinorra as part of Brian Auger and The Trinity, the line-up that recorded ‘This Wheel’s on Fire’ with Julie Driscoll, and was recorded by him under the name Philamore Lincoln. Hopkin’s version isn’t a million miles different but Hopkin’s voice is far better suited to the faraway mood of the song, and she can really sing, which Lincoln, with respect, couldn’t match, half-growling his original.
Most’s arrangement is lighter and fresher, opening up the song with well-judged strings, first creating a swirl that introduces the melody after Hopkin’s delicate but almost negligible acoustic guitar intro, creating the space for Hopkin’s voice to celebrate a kind of restrained ecstacy out of the world.
For Temma Harbour is both a place (that always struck me as being some remote Australian cove, because it is, it’s in Tasmania) and a state of mind. There’s a strand of an earthy paradise, a place beyond the world, free from its demands. In a giant lemon tree, she sings, alone my friend and me, we both climb down and cross the sands until we reach the sea.
And the waves grow higher, higher as we sway and dance, and the mood elevates and creates a headiness more than wine, for the way Mary feels makes her want to take a chance. What chance that may be is locked in our individual hearts, in whatever worldliness we want to bring to this place, but as we contemplate our thoughts we are taken to the heart of things, Mary celebrating Temma Harbour, climbing coconut trees, catching fish, lighting fires, drinking wine, and gently, tentatively testing out the companion who shares this place with her. If you say you like me, and I like you…
For this may be a real, real place but Mary is testing whether the friend who is beside her can be the other half of that idyll, if the fantasy of Temma Harbour, of treehouses and blue sea spray can be extended into a real life in which two are on a wavelength. That’s the chance she’s singing of taking, not the one you were thinking about, not the, shall we be polite and say ‘hedonistic’ option you were imagining.
It’s the combination of Hopkin’s voice and Most’s airy arrangement, keeping the musicians distant from her voice, like the distant guitars that on the wind begin to play. Hopkin carries the melody in her lovely, pure voice – by God that girl could sing! – and Most sets a gentle rhythm upon which he builds a counter-rhythm of melodic bongoes, a flute solo over the last chorus and coda, and those hovering strings, swirling like the breeze that brings the guitars from afar.
All goes to bringing Temma Harbour to us for the course of the song, just as Martha and The Muffins took us to lonely, wind-swept, isolated, sunset Echo Beach. Can Mary really bring another into this dream vision she carries within her? With a voice like hers, you want her to be happy as much as she does, just so she may sound like this.

The Infinite Jukebox: Billy Bragg’s ‘St. Swithin’s Day’

Sometimes, it’s all about the words.
A long time ago, when I was in Nottingham. Paul McCartney, who was still Wings at that point, released a single called ‘London Town’. I didn’t much like his work with Wings (and this was before ‘Bore of Kintyre’) and I didn’t like this one, and I especially didn’t like its lyrics and I said so with caustic reference to the line about “I was arrested by a rozzer wearing a pink balloon/
About his foot – toot toot toot toot’. No, even forty years later, I still want to bring a priceless Ming vase down on his head. This man is supposed to be a genius, right?
I was gently chided for my vehemence by my best mate, who told me that most people don’t even listen to the words, let alone care about them like I did. I’ve no doubt he was right, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t believe that the words of a song, the bit that makes it a song instead of an instrumental, the bits you bellow out in drunken chorus, the part that breaks your heart, are so unimportant. And I will never be able to forgive what to me is an insult to the listeners’ ears like McCartney’s lyrics there and elsewhere.
The exact opposite applies to this early Billy Bragg song, the opening track on his second album, Brewing Up with Billy Bragg. This was the pure Bragg, the hoarse-voiced, unmusical troubadour with the lone guitar, slashing and burning, spikey punky in inspiration if not quite sound, yet capable, musically at any rate, of some of the most tender and heartfelt songs ever.
Like I said, sometimes it’s all about the words.
‘St Swithin’s Day’ is a love song, a love-gone love song, sung to a former lover with whom it’s all died, but who still hopes, still cares, still wants to get back together and relive it. And it’s a song about saying no, not without regret, but a final no, because there’s nothing to go back to, and the third and final verse, each of which obey an eight line pattern, though the first two employ an extended seventh line that breaks into two on the page, especially when the latter of these employs an internal rhyme, the final verse breaks that news with the gentleness of inevitability.
It begins with Bragg thinking back to what was, as it happened, a terminal quarrel. At this distance he’s prepared to concede that it began as just a difference of opinion, as meaningless ultimately as the weather or the Battle of Agincourt. But nevertheless it was the end, of a love both hoped would last but like a train went by so fast, and left them unmoved.
That’s Bragg’s decision, though the fact of the song immediately brings into question whether he can speak for her with the same confidence. She’s still a pleasant memory on one level, as he still masturbates to thoughts of her (though Bragg puts it rather more elegantly, and better disguised, than that). But his hands aren’t the same, for he misses the thunder and the rain, the metaphors he uses to speak of being with her. And the fact that she doesn’t understand him, and by implication never will, casts a shadow over the land that was theirs: the sun is elsewhere, beyond that shade.
But there’s that third verse that is the true ending. She’s written to him, subject unknown but still easily guessed at. He won’t reply, because her honesty touches him like a fire, the fire of her retained love for him, perhaps.
And then there are the words that, every time I have ever heard them, have burned their way up my spine and set a frisson to the back on my neck, the irreversible pronouncement of death. The polaroids that hold us together will surely fade away, Bragg sings, like the love that we spoke of forever, on (pause) St Swithin’s Day.
St Swithin’s Day when, it is popularly supposed, whether it rains or shines it is the start of forty days of constant weather. And love spoken of on that day that can only live for the same forty days.
I am in awe of that line, as I am of so many more, written and sung with a precision that goes into the heart and tears its own, fine little hole. So many ways of putting words to the feelings that pull us from pillar to post, and so many times that writers of widely differing generations have enacted those feelings in words never put together before but once divined are literally unforgettable.
So no, I can’t subscribe to the idea that lyrics are unimportant, and not listening to them, and I resent someone with McCartney’s ability spewing out idiotic rubbish when he has – or had – the inspiration to do more. God knows why he couldn’t do it any more, maybe it really was because he no longer had John Lennon to sneer at shit like that. But Billy Bragg had the Muse whispering in his ear that day, though from his voice you might not believe it. St Swithin’s Day is not a day to fall in love upon.

Some Books: Wilfrid Mellers’ ‘Twilight of the Gods’

This is an occasional series, about books I read many years ago, usually from Didsbury Library, that I seek out to re-experience, to see if the things that appealed still affect me the same way, and to measure the change in myself between then and now.
The latest of these is Twilight of the Gods – The Beatles in Retrospect by Wilfrid Mellers.
Until now, I’ve been re-reading and reviewing exclusively fiction, but Mellers, a noted and highly-respected musicologist, produced an erudite survey of the music of The Beatles – mainly as a band but also covering the first, post-split albums by each member – from the point of view of the music itself, in the same manner as he and others of his ilk, would analyse, assess, praise and explain the works of Beethoven, Bach, Mozart et al.
It was a controversial book, sneered at and derided from both sides. The classical scholars were horrified at their standards and demands being applied to a mere pop group, even one so exalted as The Beatles: to them, Mellers was not so much slumming as rolling in ordure. And the pop/rock community, including The Beatles themselves, were derisive and dismissive of the very idea of applying strict musical theory to their music.
I’m sure it was that which drew my attention to the book: I’d started getting the New Musical Express in February 1972 and I can’t imagine there wasn’t a satirical review of the book at some point. I know that when I saw it in Didsbury Library, I knew what it was and was eager to read it.
It’s hard to know what to say about this book. Neither then nor now do I understand more than half of it. It’s full of staves of music, which I can’t read, and is full of musical terms that, even with the benefit of several pages of glossary, I can barely understand, and is so dense in the use of these that if I tried to consult the glossary every time, I would never finish the book.
I can follow the overall description of the progress of The Beatles’ music, from the initial primitivism of their early singles and albums – described as ritual music, or trance-inducing – to the growing sophistication of the various stages of their musical development. And its helpful that Mellers’s assessments of the various merits of the albums is in rough accord with mine (at least until the final phase, where he rates Abbey Road much higher than I do – I have no Beatles albums after Magical Mystery Tour).
But it’s obvious that Mellers regards The Beatles, and particularly Lennon and McCartney, as tremendously gifted natural musicians. Their use of musical effects, such as melissma and glissando, to name just two terms I don’t get, is detailed and praised, despite the act that their application is in almost every case accidental, unplanned and natural.
It seems that the pair’s instincts, as composers as well as musicians, combined with their expert use of the studio and the formal assistance rendered to them by George Martin, enabled them to invariably select musically adventurous forms that were ideally suited to the ideas and emotions they wanted to express.

Not that Mellers slights Harrison or Starr, making it plain that whilst their contributions, musically, may be slight in comparison to the major writers in the band, they were nevertheless essential components in the collective identity of The Beatles, the shared experience of being Liverpudlian working class men at that time and in that place.
Twilight of the Gods, an overblown title for which I can find no justification in or out of the book, was published in 1973, allowing Mellers to end by looking at the different approaches taken by the individual Beatles in their post-split-up solo work, a period long enough to enable all members to release two albums, except for Harrison, whose first was a triple-album offering more sound overall than any of the other three.
Even here, Mellers concentrates more upon Lennon and McCartney who, separated from the scrutiny of the other, go down very different routes towards the uncompromised music they wish to make (McCartney does not profit by the distinction, at least not to my eyes, just as he certainly doesn’t to my ears).
It’s still all very much above my head, except when Mellers makes reference to certain of the lyrics, and there’s still a certain surreallity to the idea of subjecting pop/rock to this level of formal analysis. But Mellers is sincere in his beliefs and in the value of the music and even an imperfect understanding of his arguments fails to render them risible or overdone.
In the end, the book’s interest lies in it being one of the first, if not the first, to examine The Beatles’ music rigorously, and to conclude that it was not merely valid, but serious, and to describe it in musical terms usually confined to the more formal, more trained Classical music. For this, Mellers was scorned on all sides. The book is out of print and comparatively costly to obtain but, understand it or not, I’m hanging onto my copy.

Some Books: Mark Shipper’s ‘Paperback Writer’

In 2014, responding to some stray thoughts that brought up memories of a small number of books that I had read more than once, borrowing and re-borrowing them from Didsbury Library, but which I hadn’t read again for at least twenty years, I began an occasional series about such books. Curious as to whether I might still find them appealing, for more reason than nostalgia for the times in which I enthused over them, I hunted the books down, finding them cheaply available on eBay and Amazon, thinking to blog about the experience.
The latest of these books is Mark Shipper’s Paperback Writer.
This 1978 novel is not a Didsbury Library book. Indeed, I never saw it anywhere in any library, though it was published in Britain in 1979: my original copy was the very first American import I ever owned, and was bought from the main bookstore in Nottingham (whose name I can no longer recall) that summer, some eight or nine months after reading a review in the New Musical Express that made me desperately want to read it: enough so that I paid the slightly-inflated cost of buying an import book, despite money being perennially tight when I was in my Articles.
As you may have guessed from the title, it’s about The Beatles. It’s about their history from 1961 in Hamburg through to their unsuccessful comeback album and tour (supporting Peter Frampton) in 1979. But as we all know, there was no such comeback, not in 1979 nor, after December 1980, would there ever be one.
Shipper was a rock writer, founder of the well-regarded American fanzine, Flash, and a writer for Phonograph Record Magazine, which doesn’t sound a very hip publication, but who gave him the ‘creative freedom’ to write Paperback Writer. After which, and one further book, he apparently dropped out of sight, and his continued existence was last noted in 2008.
The novel takes the known framework of the Beatles’ career and does interesting, nasty things to it. We’re forewarned by the sub-title, The Life and Times of the Beatles, the Spurious Chronicle of Their Rise to Stardom, Their Triumphs and Disasters, Plus the Amazing Story of Their Ultimate Reunion, but it’s the blurb to the author photo that says it best: “In an exclusive interview for this book, Ringo Starr tells the entire Beatles story to author Mark Shipper (right). Shipper then proceeds to lose his notes on the way home, forcing him to make up his own version of the story.”
I remember finding the book incredibly funny, exploding into raucous laughter at nearly all the jokes, though in time the laughter faded and, several years later, I moved the book on. Reading it again in 2016, I chuckled at a very early gag: the book’s first conceit was that the Beatles were a quartet of leather-jacketed Teddy Boys whilst Paul McCartney was a prim, well-dressed singer with a solo album out on a Liverpool-based able, leading to conflict and opposition between the two sides until they decide to join forces. McCartney joins the band in Hamburg, the scene being described by bartender Hans Daun – but the extract is thirty lines of untranslated German!
That one was still funny, though nowhere near as funny as the absurdity of it in 1979. As for the rest of the book, it’s heaped up and overspilling gags of all kind, it’s pointed fracturing of the Beatles story? Not a giggle, nor even a titter. I didn’t have to go deep into the book to recognise that there was no going back to the mindset with which I’d enjoyed this so thoroughly in the hot, lonely summer of that year.
To give an example of how Shipper bends the story, apart from the McCartney gag (complete with made-up cover for this extremely rare LP) already mentioned, in Shipper’s universe, Brian Epstein was not manager of a local record shop but, instead, a plumber. In that capacity, he’s called to the Cavern Club to fix blocked toilets whilst The Beatles are playing. In the Ladies, he finds a wild, debauched scene with underage teenage girls fixing each other up with heroin: if the Beatles inspire this kind of response, he wants in. And it’s better than plumbing.
This of course leads to running jokes about Epstein’s continuing negotiation skills being supplemented by fixing record company bosses’ grandmothers’ leaking taps.
Everywhere we turn, the book is salted with twists on the true sequence of events. Shipper salts the everyday story with future events: George Harrison’s religious beliefs play their part behind the scenes far earlier than expected, especially in the infamous incident when Lennon claimed the Beatles were now bigger than Jesus. Yoko is thrown into the story far earlier than she actually appears, as Mick Jagger’s girlfriend, leading to a completely different take upon why Lennon provided the Stones with ‘I wanna be your Man’ for their second single, and considerably different lyrics.
It’s a tangled mess of a tale, funny in its initial impact, but whereas Terry Pratchett can be repetitively funny, the same jokes causing laughter time and again, whenever a book is read anew, Shipper’s stuff doesn’t make it past the first moment of introduction.
Nevertheless, I continued to the end, to the totally fictitious section, about the comeback. This is the best part of the book because this is the part that’s allowed to get serious, underneath the continuing humour.
Shipper leads in with the preposterous notion that Linda McCartney was a great musician and got an offer to join Steely Dan. Paul thinks of this as a betrayal but her counter offer – lead billing, Linda McCartney and Wings – is met with flat refusal: Lennon would never let me live it down. That’s the key to it, broken up for nine years or not, Paul McCartney is still a Beatle. He always will be. They all will. Sooner or later, they’ll get back together, not just because their solo careers are either shit or meaningless, but because each of them has only three other people in the world who understands what is was like, like it meant to go through the greatest phenomenon of all time.
It’s a moment when Shipper dives deep below the banality of what he’s doing, and identifies something about the most famous band of all time that we all of us never considered.
The joke is, naturally, that the comeback is a disaster. Individually, Lennon, McCartney and Harrison can’t write decent songs any more (Starr never could) and together the magic doesn’t come back. The album, the comeback, commands the highest advances in history – until anyone hears the music. And suddenly the Beatles can only get a gig if they agree to support… Peter Frampton. With the Sex Pistols as co-second lead.
Even live, the band can’t get anywhere until they do the really old oldies, those first songs, the ‘She Loves You’s and ‘I want to hold your hand’s. The embarrassing ones, the ones they hate for over exposure.
It’s Lennon, aptly, who defines it: they’re Bill Haley. Bill Haley’s the prisoner of ‘Rock Around The Clock’. He can’t play anything else because nobody wants to hear anything else. For years,the fans wanted the Beatles back, but it wasn’t really the Beatles they wanted to return, it was their own pasts, to each and every one of which the Beatles had been the soundtrack. It didn’t matter how stupid it was to listen to a forty year old man going on about wanting to hold a girl’s hand, it took them back to when holding her hand was a significant step forward. The Beatles were prisoners of everybody’s past, not just in Shipper’s horrifying perceptions, but in real life too.
Would it have been so had a Beatles reunion come in real life? We’ll never know. Already, when this book was written, the window of opportunity in which that might have happened had narrowed far more tightly than anyone of us would have imagined before that dark December morning and the news that broke over our breakfast tables. But in those closing chapters, Shipper gets into our heads and hearts in a way that makes me wonder, and wonder hard.
Only in this area does the book survive, does it become worth reading. The humour”s banal and it hasn’t traveled well down the decades, not least in that in 1979, it was still transgressive to have the Beatles dismissed as a joke. Or is it my sense of humour that’s changed over nearly forty years? I’ve evidence to prove that it hasn’t, but who really knows?
So this is going back in the resell pile, whilst I ponder what would it have been like if they’d come together again, and really played that concert of all the oldies and I had the chance to see and hear myself…


As if you didn’t know

For me, there is very little of Paul McCartney’s post-Beatle music that’s worth house-space: a year either side of Band on the Run (which I once owned) and that’s about it. Oh, and thanks almost entirely to hearing it for the first time with the utterly charming Rupert the Bear video, I do have a soft spot for The Frog Chorus. This despite never having gotten into Rupert, even as a very small boy.

And I freely confess that when it comes to the Beatles, I am far more taken with John Lennon’s contributions, though I am nothing like musical enough to say why. Perhaps it’s because, underneath it all, McCartney was the Great Sentimentalist, whose emotional music was rarely to be entirely trusted because it came far too easily, whilst Lennon was the Hard Man, whose romanticism had to be pulled out of deeper places, and which became more personal as a consequence.

Take two songs, both from A Hard Day’s Night, the film and album, both gentle, slow-tempo acoustic ballads, both love songs. Though both are credited to Lennon/McCartney, it’s open knowledge that, after the first couple of albums, most songs were primarily composed individually, with the primary writer the lead singer.

But that’s not the only reason why it’s so easy to identify track 5’s ‘And I Love Her’ as penned by McCartney, and track 3’s ‘If I Fell’ by Lennon.

I’m not going to discuss the song’s various merits musically, but let’s compare the lyrics, the substance of the songs. ‘And I Love Her’ has no substance, it’s about as deep as the first layer of dust on a concrete floor. McCartney loves her. It you saw her, you’d love her. He loves her. At night, the stars are bright and the sky is dark, but he’ll always love her. He loves her.

Many years ago, I read noted Musicologist Wilfred Mellers’ book, Twilight of the Gods, which subjected the Beatles’ songs to analysis for how they achieved their effects, in a similar manner to how classical works are approached. Mellers defined the early Beatles love songs, like ‘Love Me Do’ as ‘eden-songs’, in which the emotion is simple, indeed naive. ‘And I Love Her’ qualifies in this bracket, relatively late though it is.

In contrast, ‘If I Fell’ has deeper concerns. Lennon has met a girl, someone special, someone with whom he could easily fall in love. He’s clearly tempted. But love is more than fluffy feelings. He already has a girl, who loves him. He stands between the two women, knowing the decision to be very important. If he chooses the new woman, his current girlfriend will be hurt, badly. It is not just important but vital that he chooses correctly. If the new woman is all he thinks she might be, if what is offered is true love, commitment, the real thing, he will go to her.

But if it’s just a passing thing, a fling, a bit of fun, something ephemeral, then he will cleave to his existing girlfriend. He will not hurt her for a bit on the side.

In one sense, this is a song about a man deciding whether to break his girlfriend’s heart, but on another, Lennon is singing about repsonsibility, between one another. He’s been in love before, he sings, and found that it is more than just holding hands, the nod to the early Beatles classic deliberate and thoughtful.

In Lennon’s song, love is about commitment, between people, and it is not to be thrown away unnecessarily.

All this comes about because of the recent news of Paul McCartney initiating action in America to recover the publishing rights of ‘his’ Beatles’ songs, beginning with a selected 32. Under American copyright law, which differs from the British ‘life plus seventy five years’, the creator of a work of art can recover rights to it after the expiration of two periods of twenty-eight years.

It’s been the cause of much more sniping and snidery about McCartney, a large proportion of which being about him being richer than Croesus and therefore hardly in need of the additional money the rights to the songs would bring in, but which is substantially also about the fact that John Lennon was killed in 1980 and McCartney is still alive thirty six years later.

Lennon’s death, and the natural process towards secular canonisation that started the moment we all heard that shocking news, established a gulf between the two principal Beatles’ songwriters. It was almost mandatory to take a side – were you a Lennonist or a McCartneyite?

I’ve already identified myself as being, in theory, in Lennon’s camp. His post-Beatles music was exceedingly mixed, but his highs were far higher than those of McCartney’s and McCartney’s lows are incomparably awful.

But what’s the point? I might prefer Lennon’s songs, but that doesn’t mean that I disdain McCartney’s. The guy who wrote ‘Yesterday’ and who carried the tune around for two years because he didn’t believe it could be original. The Beatles could not have been what we relish them for, could not have contributed so much to the development of music if either of the pair were not there. They may not have written together often after the first couple of years, but no song was begun without the thought of the other, the need to pass the other’s quality controls, their bullshit detector, the paramount desire to outdo.

Whatever I may think of McCartney’s music, now or for decades, it does not alter one jot that he is an artist. That status does not depend upon the quality of what he produces (which might not impress me but which has a very expansive following nevertheless), it’s simply what it is. McCartney has spoken many times of hearing ‘Yesterday’ being credited to Lennon/McCartney, and has refused many times to sing Beatles songs on stage because it means having to pay someone else for the privilege of singing his own songs.

Snipe all you want, but from my incredibly lower perspective, I know exactly what he feels. Your work is your own, and there is a personal connection that goes above and beyond monetary considerations.

But at the bottom of it, I find the hatred towards McCartney confusing and dismaying. He was a Beatle, and like the other three, he was an integral part of the group. They were as they were because of him, in exactly the same manner that they were as they were because of John. And George. And Ringo. Whether I prefer John’s music to his, the plain fact is that he wrote some incredible songs that will still be being sung in other centuries.

The older I get, the harder it gets to see why such things matter so viscerally to so many people. Is it so beyond conception that one can like someone’s music without feeling the compulsion to belittle someone else’s? Can you only love Lennon’s music if you commit yourself to hating McCartney’s?

Or are we damned to believe Robert Wyatt’s line from the hypnotic ‘Gharbzadegi’: “How can I rise if you don’t fall?”

I’m also depressed, if not surprised, at the tenor of the attitude to McCartney seeking to reclaim the rights to his own songs. He wrote them. He lost control of them due to appallingly bad business advice. But his desire to take them back arouses scorn and contempt, on the irrelevant ground that he doesn’t need the money from them.

That’s what it’s all about to so many people now: money. It’s the only thing in their heads and so they won’t accept that a person can be motivated by anything else.

Not even ‘Mull of Kyntire’ justifies that.

Is that what it’s really about? – Eydie Gorme’s “Yes my Darling Daughter”

This is only the second subject of an extremely occasional series of reflections on well-known, very successful Sixties songs whose innocence of aspect and seeming-naivete of lyric conceals a slightly different – and definitely not innocent – aspect to the story.

Like it’s predecessor, on Status Quo’s 1968 hit, Ice in the Sun, subjects in this feature are inspired by my hearing them on Sounds of the Sixties, so blame producer Phil Swern for the delay.

I’ve written elsewhere of my general indifference to the pre-Beatles Sixties music, and Eydie Gorme, a veteran of the big band era, falls firmly into that bracket, but ‘Yes, my Darling Daughter’ is one of many late-Fifties/early-Sixties songs that conjure up memories of my early years, and my mother having the Light Programme on all day whilst she did her housework. Gorme had a number 10 hit in Britain with this in 1962, though the song itself is twenty years older, and it’s melody is apparently stolen, like Paul McCartney’s ‘Those were the Days’ for Mary Hopkin, from a Ukrainian song.

Anyway, with those sort of antecedents, you’d expect it to be all Tin Pan Alley bland and sugary, professionally romantic and, of course, determinedly asexual. Which, in the first verse, it is. Darling Daughter, who is all sweetness and innocence/naivete, is seeking permission to go out dancing, and sweetly indulgent Mama is encouraging her to do so.

‘Momma, may I go out dancing?/Yes my darling daughter/Momma, may I try romancing?/Yes, my darling daughter’

This song is written as a two-person question and answer lyric, but Gorme sings both parts with no change of tone or inflection. But I digress.

Of course, Momma is properly protective of her little girl’s virginity – sorry, I mean innocence – for when little miss butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth starts talking about a moon shining on the water, ie, sneaking outside for a quick snog, dear old Momma tells her to stay inside with the dancing.

In fact, Momma’s pretty eager about all this dancing because when Darling Daughter starts going on about her still-imaginary suitor getting honourable ideas on the first date, Momma’s all for it: ‘What if he’ll propose, Momma darling,/When the night is getting shorter/ Momma what should be my answer?/ Yes my darling daughter’.  And that’s before Momma has even run her eye across the ability of Mr Imaginary to keep Darling Daughter in the style to which she is accustomed (parents used to be very big on such things, way back then).

So far, so predictable. There’s a comparatively long instrumental break for an under-two-minutes single, replacing all versions of the middle eight, before we’re back with more of the same for the second and final verse. Fondly indulgent but deeply practical Momma assures Darling Daughter that, yes, it will be exciting, yes, she looks inviting (which is a bloody odd way of describing your virginally innocent daughter in 1962, let alone 1941: yes darling, you definitely look up for a shag), but then a strange note comes into this conversation.

Darling Daughter is starting to get worked up about being held sufficiently tight that her knees just turn to water, which we have to read as a conventional reference to feminine weakness in the presence of a handsome man rather than the idea of our helpless little female being crushed to death, but that’s just a prelude to the last couplet:

‘What if he’ll persist, Momma darling,/ doing things he hadn’t oughta/ Momma what should be my answer?/ Yes my Darling Daughter’.

Only it’s not ‘Yes’, it’s ‘Yes, yes. Yes, yes. Yes, yes!’ with rising intensity, sounding rather like Momma’s imagining herself about to be sexually assaulted and potentially raped by the guy she’s wishing onto the apple of her eye and getting pretty durned hot at the thought.

I mean, hold on a minute there. This is this sweet, innocent song and suddenly, with no change musically or vocally, our traditionally protective Momma is now telling Darling Daughter that if he starts getting fresh, wandering hands, sneaking them up skirts, no doubt slipping panties to one side, all the sort of things that unknowing girls who’ve led sheltered lives and have just been let off the leash for the first time, maidenheads ripe for deflowering, prospects for ruination, even the risk of adolescent pregnancy, the stuff they know nothing about (because, let’s face it, Darling Daughter’s head is full of nothing but inane romantic imagery and probably wouldn’t know what a penis is when a man puts it in her hand) and dear old Momma is saying that if he wants to do anything to you, whether you like it or not, let him do it.

You lie back and think of England whilst I have a quick orgasm at the very thought of it.

And people went around saying rock’n’roll was a corrupting influence.