I’m still a little bit suspicious about what’s happening to my only weekly radio programme Sounds of the Sixties. Tim Rice has thanked us all for our forebearance… no, actually kindness, in listening to him this last three months when he’s been sitting in for Brian Matthews, but it’s all over and our old chum will be back next Saturday.
Or will he? Next Saturday is going to be a compilation programme, made up of Brian’s favourite moments from his twenty-seven years on the show, so not actually a new episode, so we’re going to have to wait until at least a fortnight from now to see if things are going back to that Edenic state of yore.
I don’t know what the last three months have done to the show’s audience figures but, from the point of view of a sixteen year veteran, it’s come close to rocking my loyalty to SOTS. It’s not only been Rice’s jerky presentation, with the gaps between sentences coming every half dozen words or so, instead of only when the full stop appears on his script. A lot of it has been his insistence on describing everything as fantastic, brilliant, wonderful, indiscriminately and with no audible conviction to suggest that he actually believes what he’s saying.
There was a perfect example in the first half of the show, in the ‘Loose Connections’ feature, with Dusty Springfield, Gene Pitney and Petula Clark. All three were obscure songs, of which I’d only previously heard the Dusty track, and the connection was the clever and subtle one that each song was a commercial flop in the middle of a run of big hits. Such things always fascinate me: one of my ways of educating myself about Sixties music in the early Seventies were Simon Frith’s Rock Files books, listing chart successes act by act. These gave the impression of bands having unbroken success, but of course they presented a distorted picture by excluding the ones that didn’t chart at all.
But because these songs were, by definition, flops, Rice had to assure his listeners that they were great songs, absolutely wonderful, these artists never cut a track that wasn’t aural perfection, as if he was afraid that someone might get offended by the playing of a track that hadn’t been a hit. I mean, dammit, there’s only Pet still around to listen: Dusty and Gene won’t care.
So here’s hoping for a return to better things, but I remain unconvinced. Whilst I’ll relax and enjoy two hours of Brian’s warm tones, even that won’t set off the fact that this was yet another Sounds of that bit of the Early Sixties that Phil Swern is obsessed with only he denies it, ha ha. Even the newest feature drags the programme even further back: Fifties in the Sixties, covers of prominent Fifties tracks.
Still, no more Tim Rice. Saturdays will automatically improve. I hope.
I’m three-quarters of the way through another Sounds of the Sixties, being presented by Tim Rice in the ongoing absence of Brian Matthews, and it’s time to admit that I’m not enjoying it.
It’s nothing to do with my frequent complaint about Producer Phil Swern’s predeliction for pre-Beatles music, in fact I’m hardly registering the music at all, and that’s the problem. Tim Rice is irritating the hell out of me.
Now Brian Matthews could sometimes talk at length, especially when giving details about obscure bands and singers, but his was a comfortable voice. You automatically listened, and it never felt as if time was a factor. Tim Rice can’t do that. he’s talky, disjointed, his sentences are badly constructed and his tone is full of unnatural and irregular emphases. Where Brian Matthews’ voice directed you to what he was saying, Tim Rice directs you to how he’s saying it. It sounds like he’s going on and on, that he’s overwhelming the air-time, inverting the balance of importance between voice and music.
And he’s so clumsy, especially when it comes to the transition from one record to another, always marked by a pause that inserts itself into the air: dead air that grates far more than it should.
I’m not enjoying Sounds of the Sixties and it disturbs me that Rice is no longer sitting in. He’s just not a natural broadcaster, and we’ve been spoiled by our old mate. I’ve been listening to Sounds of the Sixties for over a decade and a half, and I’m starting to imagine a Saturday without it.
As regular readers will know, the only music radio programme I listen to these days is Radio 2’s Sounds of the Sixties, 8.00 – 10.00 am on Saturday mornings, unless it’s a working evening in which case it’s the BBC i-Player at about 6.30 – 8.30pm.
It’s not been that bad a day working, but thanks to busses fucking me around, the lack of certain basic stock in Tescos and the probability that I’m going to have to buy a new shaving razor because they seem to have discontinued the refill blades on the one I’ve been using for several years now, I’ve gotten home in a pretty disgruntled mood.
So, on I put Sounds of the Sixties, which started with Chubby Checker’s ‘The Twist’, then went into a track by Harry Nilsson. Fair enough, you might say, I’ve no objection to a bit of late-Sixties Nilsson but wait, no, this is actuially a 1963 obscurity, a piece of undistinguished rock-‘n’roll under a silly name.
In between, Brian Matthew had read out the list of first half requests, and a right old pre-Beatles lot it sounded, so I broke with habit and read the full tracklisting.
Since I’m now typing this at 7.00pm instead of listening to the i-Player you may take it that, yet again, it’s another of those early-Sixties dominated shows that producer Phil Swern believes he doesn’t playlist very often. I can do without it when I’m feeling pissed off.
This is an occasional series in which, inspired by their being played on Sounds of the Sixties, I pick apart the lyrics of a big Sixties hit record for the real meaning concealed behind the seemingly innocent lyrics.
Incredibly, it was a double-header on today’s programme. I’ve been waiting for this particular bit of faux-innocence to come up as I spotted it’s darker sub-content a long time ago…
I have a confession to make: I don’t like Cliff Richard. Not his music, not his Christianity, not his films. And, after their Seventies revival, I’m not all that fond of the Shadows either: Hank Marvin’s guitar sound may be superb, but the rest of the band are pretty naff.
Yet despite our homegrown Elvis’s impeccably clean-cut surface, there are times when the mask slips, and the former Mr Harry Webb unveils a darker underbelly than the one we are used to seeing. One such instance is his 1966 hit single, In the Country.
On the surface, this is one of Cliff’s more palatable songs, a bright, uptempo, happy song, extolling the wonders of a day in the country, ‘where the air is good/and the day is fine’, ‘where the silver stream is a poor man’s wine’. Sound’s good, doesn’t it?
But our Cliff has a darker side, a decidedly unChristian one if you start listening to this song properly.
In the Country addresses a person in pain, in psychic torment, lost in a world of despair, confusion and depersonalisation. “When the world in which you live in/Gets a bit too much to bear/
And you need someone to lean on/When you look, there’s no one there.”
Ah, we’ve been there, mate. And “When you’re walking in the city/And you’re feeling rather small/ And the people on the pavement/Seem to form a solid wall.”
Yeah, isolation can be a killer, forcing you ever deeper into depression. It’s that time when, more than anything else, you need a friend, a hand reaching out, a kindly word, the recognition of what you are going through. So, what does the Christian Cliff have to say to you?
“You’re gonna find me out in the country.”
Come again, Cliff?
“Yeah, you’re gonna find me way out in the country.”
Hang about man, show some sympathy here, don’t rub the poor sod’s nose in it that you’ve got it going better for you then him.
“Where the air is good, and the day is fine/And the pretty girl has a hand in mine/And the silver stream is a poor man’s wine.”
Ah,you bastard! Here’s this guy suffering and you, all you can do is go on about how you’re living it up in the countryside, no bloody petrol fumes there, you’re romping with this bird (it’s not Olivia, is it?), and you’ve got natural water, not the horrible stuff that comes out of taps. You absolute shit, can’t you think of someone else I bet he’d give everything to get out and see some clouds and fields, even without a dolly bird to shag in the long grass.
I’m all right, is it Cliff? And they all think you’re so nice.
This is an occasional series in which, inspired by their being played on Sounds of the Sixties, I pick apart the lyrics of a big Sixties hit record for the real meaning concealed behind the seemingly innocent lyrics.
This is really wierd, but I had been thinking of the Ivy League’s third, most successful and final hit, ‘Tossing and Turning’, as a potential subject for this series mot more than three days ago, and as if by some measure of ESP, SOTS producer and compiler Phil Swern selected the very track to open this morning’s programme. The Ivy League were primarily vocalists, session singers John Carter, Ken Lewis and Perry Ford, producing close harmonies based on a high-pitched lead voice.
Initially, they were forced on the Who for their debut single, ‘I Can’t Explain’, before the trio scored two well-remembered top 5 singles, seperated by a minor, top 30 hit.
To be honest, I’m not really sure I should be counting this as a song with a hidden meaning, since the hidden meaning is about as well-concealed as Rihanna’s bum. Try the opening verse: “I can’t sleep at night/Tossing and turning/I turn on the light/Then while it’s burning/I think of all the things that we do/And all the reasons why I love you.”
Basically, the guy can’t sleep ‘cos he’s got his girlfriend on his mind, so what does he do in those lonely, silent hours, awake without any relief? He ‘tosses and turns’. All night. I think we can all see very clearly, in our mind’s eyes, what he’s doing, whether we want an image like that in our heads or not (and I for one would definitely prefer not).
“Was I really holding you tight? Did I really kiss you goodnight?” our guy ponders, filling his mind with the immediacy of close bodily contact of a kind that impresses, firmly, where a woman is not shaped like a man, not to mention snogging on the doorstep, and as we might expect, he’s off tossing and turning again.
Of course, this is the Sixties, so the sweet little maid, doubtless unaware of the filthy practices to which she has driven her frustrated beau, is fast asleep, blissfully not polluting her carnality, not even with him. He knows: “Whatcha gonna do at night?/Nobody to hold you tight/Are you lonely?/Don’t you know that I get lonely, too?/And I’m blaming you!” We are witness to sexist thinking here: of course, good girls neverdid that sort of thing: Heck, even bad girls didn’t!
Naturally, there’s a solution: “We’ll be lovers just like before/I guess I’ll never sleep anymore.” Oh, but there he goes again, ‘tossing and turning’ even more at the very thought. It frankly makes you doubt that, even after she’s let him have his way with her innocence, he’s not still going to be pulling his plonker every night.
I bet it wakes her up something chronic.
If you watch this video, you will see that I am not the only one to have penetrated (hee hee) the real meaning of this song…
Phil Swern, Producer of the long-running Radio 2 Saturday morning programme Sounds of the Sixties denies that under his control the show has become more and more oriented to the early Sixties, and the pre-Beatles era.
Phil Swern ought to read the last three weeks’ playlists and try to say that again with a straight face.
These have not only been unbearably imbalanced but also incredibly dull. Dull to the extent that, only a few minutes into the second half of today’s show, I switched off in absolute disgust (and looking at the published playlist, I didn’t miss anything). And I’ve never switched SOTS off early in my life. Considering that I was listening, as I have to do every alternate weekend, on the i-Player, it’s even more of a shock.
I have been listening to this programme for 13 years. It’s not like I’m asking for the early Sixties stuff to be banished (though I’m tempted with a lot of the pre-Beatles stuff, which remind you of just how important the four moptops were). I’m not even asking for a few late-Sixties dominated episodes, antidote though they would be. I just want balance, a fair spread across each programme, and across a series of shows.
My Sounds of the Sixties is being taken away from me by a Producer who refuses to recognise his own musical biases. Given that it’s the only music radio show I listen to each week, I am seriously pissed off at that.
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.
It’s Saturday morning as, just as I have for the vast majority of Saturday mornings over the last dozen years, I’m listening to Radio 2 and Brian Matthews presenting another edition of Sounds of the Sixties.
But it’s one of those Saturdays again, that are not just uninteresting to someone of my tastes, but which have become positively irritating, which now leaves me on edge throughout the first twenty minutes of the programme, waiting to see how it’s going to be. And it always starts the weekend off the wrong way.
The programme’s been around for thirty years this year. Each year, the music gets further and more distant, more of the musicians leave us, but the songs are still what they also were, and still as fresh as paint, especially for someone like me, who missed the Sixties, musically – all bar the last ten days,actually.
I used to listen to it a bit in the Eighties, when it still felt soul-crushingly wrong to listen to a show on Radio 2, on my Mam’s radio channel, but I’d forgotten it had even existed by the Saturday morning in 2001 when we were heading north up the M6 and found it by accident.
The programme had changed fundamentally by then. Brian Matthews, with his warm, velvety voice, and his authoritative friendliness, had been in the seat for over a decade, and the show had evolved from being an eternal re-run of those great and glorious, legendary and somewhat familiar hits.
They still strutted their stuff for the ear, but now they shared equal time with the obscure and the unheard: singers and bands who released singles that didn’t make it, until the label dropped them, or they called it a day. B-sides that showed a different aspect to the music of the stars. EP and LP tracks.
There was a feature running,that had been going for ages, “The A to Z of The Beatles”. It was what it said on the tin: every song the Beatles had ever recorded, in alphabetical order. But not just the songs: each one was accompanied by something pertinent to it, interviews, talks, stunts, contemporaneous or subsequent. Not just every Beatle song there could be, but a splendidly knowledgeable, researched, insightful guide to each one.
But it was those obscurities that made the show, the sheer volume, the wealth of Sixties music that, after all this time, I still hadn’t heard. It was the other half of the Sixties, what you had to have been there to have heard, because it never made it into the selective memory, the official explanation of the Sixties.
And if it wasn’t hard to understand why this hadn’t made it then or wasn’t honoured now, the show was full of unbelievable songs and performances, music that should have and in a better world would have been part of the picture that was left behind for is to see: unknown slices of awesomeness that had your ears hurtling across the room, shrieking, “My God, why hast thou kept me from hearing this this forty years past?”
Put that down to the man who compiled the playlist, then-Producer, Roger “The Vocalist “ Bowman. Give credit to Matthews, whose years of experience, and presence throughout the very time of this music,enables him to pass on details about these obscure figures, those who never got to be a part of the dialogue. However much you may ‘know’ that the information he relates has been researched for him, Matthews always makes you feel that he knows all this from back then.
But Bowman had a knack, a gift of finding those incredible unknowns, and dropping them into the programme in a manner that suggested that they belonged, indubitably, with their more famous cousins.
Sadly, Bowman moved on in 2007, by which time Sounds of the Sixties was no longer a BBC production but the work of an independent company. And I mean no disrespect to his successor, Phil “The Collector” Swern, but the programme has never quite been as good since.
Just take some time to think about what the producer has to do. On the surface, it’s simple: just programme two hours of music that was recorded between 1 January 1960 and 31 December 1969 (or which was a re-issued chart hit in that period). This allows the programme to feature songs that were successful in 1970,providing they were actually recorded before the cut-off, and also those previously unissued tracks that crop up on CD compilations in the 21st Century.
But what is Sixties music?
Is it unrepentant rock’n’roll, refusing to go quietly? The safe, tame, plasticised pop pre-Beatles? The Trad boom? Merseybeat? The bluesy rock of the Stones? The explosive, energetic, soul-inflected Mods? Surf music? Electric folk-rock? Dylan? Presley? That mid-Sixties burst of energetic, creative music inspired by Pirate Radio? Tamla Motown? Stax Soul? Bluebeat? Psychedelia? The young mothers sex appeal of Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck? The heavily-orchestrated uptempo pop of the Love Affair and The Marmalade? Reggae and Trojan? The British Blues Boom?
Well, it’s a stupid question because it’s all of those and all those I haven’t mentioned. But the point is that the Sixties is not one homogenised, generic thing but rather a myriad of Sixties, and it takes an extraordinarily broad ear for any one person to love all of it.
I know I don’t. If you were to tailor a SOTS to my tastes, it would be about 75% loaded with music between 1966-69 (and Thunderclap Newman’s Something in the Air would probably be scheduled every other week), and entire ice ages would pass between plays for anything pre-Beatles. Or Elvis and Cliff.
(A story: one time the programme had a feature whereby it played every Sixties hit by Messrs Presley and Richard, in order, on a weekly basis. These were the fourth and fifth tracks on “Side 1” – i.e. the first hour. During this duet I would go downstairs and make a cup of tea for my wife. Unfortunately, and inadvertently, I created a Pavlovian response: every time she heard Elvis or Cliff, she wanted tea!)
Obviously, you can’t run a Sounds on the Sixties based on my preferences, and that goes for everyone else in the show’s millions of “Avids” (avid listeners). We all want something different, and compiling the playlist becomes a balancing act, trying to satisfy as many tastes as you can.
The programme has always had ‘Features’, like the “A to Z of the Beatles”, that give a certain structure to the show, features that change from time to time.
There was the fascinating and frequently bizarre “A to Z of One-Hit Wonders”, a weekly feature playing every single top 40 hit by artists who had only one hit in the Sixties, which revealed it’s own fair share of obscurities, including a fair number of ‘songs’ that were less hidden gems than jaw-droppingly unfathomable … things … that had you doubting the sanity of the people who’d actually bought this record. This feature got re-named something incredibly woolly after SOTS found itself playing David Bowie as a ‘One-Hit Wonder’.
And, maybe twice a year, the show would run specials, where the middle hour was devoted to a complete replay of the US Top Twenty of that week in a given year: I still remember one from 1968 where the Number One was Groovin’ by the Young Rascals, which was not only perfect in itself, but utterly fascinating when heard in the context of what else surrounded it at that moment in time.
Swern has continued the programme’s long-standing balance between the famous and the obscure, and a good third of the track-listing is taken up by listeners’ requests. Even I have had a mention on the show, attached to this example of the instrumental that always takes us up to the Nine O’Clock News.
But it’s not been the same. Swern simply does not have the knack of discovering the amazing obscurities that Bowman had. Nowadays, if the programme features a fresh, bright, exciting piece of little known music, it’s inevitably something I found on YouTube about six months earlier.
What I don’t like about SOTS now is the frequency with which there are editions that are thoroughly biassed towards the first half of the Sixties, like today’s show. After leading off with The Marmalade’s 1968 no. 1, Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, there were only two other tracks out of seventeen in the first hour that post-dated 1965.
In the second half, that number improved to five out of a further eighteen tracks.
To be fair, this is the first time for a couple of months that this has happened, but there have been spells in the past when several weeks have gone by with the programme barely venturing its head above the 1965 parapet.
I’ve contacted the programme about this, and received a pleasingly prompt response from Swern, who denies any bias towards the early – or indeed any – part of the Sixties. It wouldn’t be so bad if there were editions that were conspicuously weighted towards the late Sixties as opposed to the early. I’ve never detected any to any appreciable, let alone regular degree, though being honest requires me to consider that I might not actually notice that kind of show.
I also raised concerns about a new feature that has crept in unannounced and unacknowledged, which is the show’s new habit of a big band ending. Week in, week out, tracks by the likes of Mel Torme, Frank Sinatra, Lena Horne, Cleo Laine. It’s music that’s recorded in, but which is not of the Sixties.
In fact, to be blunt about it, it’s music that rock’n’roll and everything that flowed from it, that the entire Sixties ethos was in rebellion against. It’s music by and for people who loathed and despised pop and rock, people who looked down on Sixties music as cheap, and nasty, and unmusical, and tasteless. It’s our parent’s music.
There may be a place for this in the programme, as part of the panoply of the Sixties, but not as a regular feature, week in, week out. And as a closing feature, it’s an utter disaster. It’s my parents, coming in and sneering at everything I’ve been listening to and being enriched by, and they’re saying ‘Get that rubbish off, this is proper music, not that awful noise you listen to, and they get to have the last word.
It devalues everything played up to that point. We ought to be going out of the programme on a high, on something quintessentially of the time that makes us tune into the programme in the first place, and not something our parents would want to make us listen to instead.
Swern has not been convinced by my argument, but has confirmed that the feature is not permanent, and will be replaced in due course. I hope it will be soon, because it drags down a programme that, on days like this, is already flat and empty for the likes of me.
Although I suppose it could be bloody Elvis and Cliff instead.