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.....and for proof of the pudding of 'Answer Me's popularity, here's another version of the same song at number one (it was actually tied at the top with David Whitfield for a while, making it the first and last time that the UK charts has ever had two versions of the same song at number one at the same time). Where Whitfield warbled like a milksop, Frankie is a man's man and his take is far more straight and direct - a bit too direct maybe; his 'Answer me my love' sounds more like a demand that should come with an exclamation mark at the end and he doesn't sound in much of an understanding mood throughout. "She was mine yesterday, and I believed that love was here to stay, won't you tell me where I've gone astray?" - well if your attitude toward women is the same as in 'Hey Joe' then you don't need to look too far for your answer Mr Laine, but at least now you know how your mate back then would have felt, you cuckolding heel.
I said on the Whitfield write up that there were better versions of 'Answer Me' than his, and though I prefer Laine's cut, it still misses the point by barn door proportions - I have a version of this by no other than Anton LaVey that sounds less intimidating and more understanding than Frankie manages, but it seems right and proper that the man who dominated a frankly piss poor 1953 chart (eight weeks at the top for this alone) should have the final say.
Another popular, much recorded song with the crooners, 'Answer Me' started off life in Germany as "Mütterlein". English lyrics were provided in 1953 and David Whitefield's version was actually an early example of the BBC banning a record (this time on religious grounds - the opening line originally went "Answer me, oh Lord", a plea to the Almighty for an explanation as to why his woman has left him. This was subsequently re-written and re-recorded by Whitfield so that the question is addressed directly to the woman herself), though this didn't stop it getting to number one, so good on Dave for sticking it to 'the man' - even the Sex Pistols didn't manage to do that much.....
....and that's abut as far as my praise is going to stretch - Whitfield's version of 'Answer Me' is a horrible affair with his quivering tenor aiming for Covent Garden Opera House but finds itself more suited to barking on a fruit stall in the market outside. Dave chews up the lyrics like the hammiest character actor, his tongue lolling over the syllables as if they were oversized gobstoppers - even the arch vibrato of Bryan Ferry showed more restraint when he recorded a version of this. In Whitfield's hands, 'Answer Me' is shot through with a dribbling insincerity that leaves me not believing a single word that leaves his mouth. It's a good song that deserves its popularity, but there are far better versions than this out there.
Not a version of the song made famous by Jimi Hendrix but a Felice and Boudleaux Bryant country tune that Laine attacks with a joie de vivre that's as welcome as a cool wind in the arid desert that has been much of the 1953 chart to date. Welcome that is until the thrill of hearing something with a pulse dies down and you actually listen to what's on Laine's mind; you see, he's got the hots for his mate's 'purdy girly'. Apparently, she's 'a honey, she's a sugar pie' and he makes no bones that he's 'gonna try to steal her from you' because he 'gotta have that dolly for my own'. The small matter as to why his chum doesn't punch him on the nose notwithstanding, what the 'pretty little chick' in question makes of all this attention isn't recorded.
And why should it be; she's just so much chattel for the boys to haggle over and such a caveman approach to courting dates 'Hey Joe' as surely as the 'Christmas morning she'll be happier with a Hoover' advert from the same year (apologies, I'm currently watching 'Mad Men' on DVD and all this seems highly prescient). In fairness, Laine's vocal comes with a wink rather than a leer and his good natured smarm almost manages to overcome the blatantly distasteful sexism on display. I say 'almost' because it doesn't really, but at the end of the day I have to give 'Hey Joe' a thumbs up of sorts - after all, if you've been wandering through the desert for weeks then you don't turn your nose up at an oasis just because a camel has pissed in it.
I can imagine Guy pitching up at The Sands one night to catch Frank or Dean in their pomp and thinking 'I'll have a bit of that'; 'Look At The Girl' tries to sashay on the same fingerclicking groove of cool that Sinatra found effortless but instead this swings about as well as a square tyre. Mitchell has a decent enough voice (as will be evidenced on 'Singing The Blues') but on this he's cardboard stiff and the smugness of what there is of tone is not endearing - the girl we're meant to be looking at in slack jawed awe is the one he's actually banging. Nice one Guy (he couldn't look more pleased with himself on that cover shot if he tried could he eh)? The forceful clapping in the background sounds like applause aimed in his direction for winning such a trophy, but the orchestrated backing keeps a respectful distance as if it's too embarrassed to be seen in the same company as such a dolt. But we all know blokes like that, don't we?
As 'bic' has become a generic term to describe all pens, so 'Mantovani' has come to conjure up a blanket bland genre of instrumental confection designed solely to pour out of lift speakers the world over. Not entirely fair, but with 'The Song From The Moulin Rouge' as evidence, it's hard to mount a credible defence. Taken from the soundtrack of John Houston's 'Moulin Rouge' (about painter Toulouse-Lautrec and his nineteenth century cronies making whoopee in Paris), this theme is not something that's come to define the movie the way that, for example, John Williams' 'Jaws' or Elmer Bernstein's 'Magnificent Seven' soundtracks have come to define theirs. Rather than anything striking or memorable, it wafts by in a lazy evocation of quiet Parisian evenings (ironically, of the type that Monsieur Lautrec didn't enjoy too many of) and as mood music it works well enough. But in it's drift, it's more lift music than uplifting music and though enjoyable while it lasts, it's forgotten almost as soon as it's over.
Eddie's second number one (the first artist to score two) and not a lot has changed. He's still the bridesmaid and not the bride only this time, not content with just loitering outside his ex's house he's become more pro-active in his stalker-ish activities: "Though you may forget me, you're still on my mind. Look over your shoulder, I'm walking behind". The slow impassioned vocal makes this quite the creepiest thing you're likely to hear at number one, and though Sally Sweetland's ghostly, 'Kate Bush as Cathy' backing vocal provides a striking point of interest, it only adds to the spookiness by inferring that it's the voice of his ex calling from beyond the grave after it all got too much for Eddie one night. Of course, this could all be the product of my tired mind (it's late as I type this), but to take it at face value then it's another interchangeable ballad of angst whose audience is someone other than me. It comes, it goes and leaves no discernable trace in its passing, none of which makes for a good number one no matter what the year.
The Rasputin of number ones, not only did 'I Believe' stay in pole position for a staggering eighteen weeks, it also got up off the canvas Rocky stylee to reclaim the top spot twice after Eddie Fisher and Mantovani both failed to deliver a KO. Such longevity must surely be born out of quality, right? Well no - no matter who is in the saddle, 'I Believe' is a sentimental gloop of 'always have faith' neo religiosity ("I believe for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows") that walks a fine line between sincerity and parody. If it's handled with the hushed reverence of a prayer then you may get away with it, but Frankie Laine has never been one for understatement and true to form he delivers 'I Believe' with the side of the mouth snarl and urgency of a man who has three minutes to get out of Dodge. His overwrought, fists clenched passion sounds as comically overplayed today as the exaggerated face muggings of early silent film stars - Frankie believes alright, and what's more he'll execute every last motherfucker who dares to disagree. I've no idea what well of sentimentality this tapped into in 1953, but to my ears it's long since dried up.
The second British number one (and the first from a solo female, '(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window'? is a step up in quality from The Stargazers but only insofar as it's better to get shot in one knee than both. Patti Page was the first to record this though her version has always struck me as far too sophisticated for what is essentially a song aimed at kids. Roza's vocal has far more of a smile about it and the 'ruff ruff' doggie noises are played more for laughs here too, all which makes it far more endearing that Page's cut. Roza herself had star qualities in spades - with a warm voice and looks falling in-between Judy Garland and Sophia Loren she should have been bigger. In any event, she deserves a better epitaph than this; for something so simplistic and trite the song has proved surprisingly durable, going on to become a standard of sorts and an albatross of little more than a statistic for Roza. There's always room at number one for a novelty tune and this is better than most but still, is all this really worth the wear of actually compiling these charts in the first place?
On a trivia note, this is by all accounts the rarest UK number one for collectors to track down in decent condition, allegedly because the children it was bought for were none too gentle in their handling of it.
The first home-grown number one on the charts, The Stargazers were a vocal group with a dual operation as both as backing singers for hire and a recording act in their own right, like on this. 'Broken Wings' was a popular song in 1953 in that it charted no less than three times; Art and Dottie Todd were first up, followed by Dickie Valentine. Art and Dottie play it with a straight bat, Dickie drags it out preposterously as if he was getting paid by the syllable and The Stargazers.....well their version is the oddest of the lot.
Rationing didn't end in Britain until 1954, but I wasn't aware that it also extended to our musical output - the main selling point of 'Broken Wings' is the pretty melody, and on this version its carried sparely on the white notes of a very reedy organ, only broken by horn solo that sounds more like a paper and comb. Compared to even the worst that America had to offer in 1953 it's cheap sounding and outdated in the extreme, a finding not helped by a vocal ensemble that although pushed to the fore, remain as plummily detached from it all as a period radio announcer reading the shipping forecast.
'Broken Wings' has the same curious charm as a higher quality novelty out of a more pricey Christmas cracker - a bemused talking point at first but nothing you want to hang on to; if this is the best that Britain could do then no wonder Eddie and Perry were filling their boots until we got our act together.
As a postscript, one of The Stargazers went on to father the lead singer from Johnny Hates Jazz. Make of that what you will.
In which a London banker gives up the good life to travel to what sounds like Kong island to marry a native woman who lives on coconuts and fish in a ceremony attended by baboons and elephants. On paper it sounds pure Victorian music hall but in truth it's a product of 1952 America, an era that saw the craze for a genre that came to be called 'Exotica' - that is, a safe, middle class idea of the culture and music of Oceanic countries that rustled up a hint of the forbidden in the comfort of your own home.
Of course, at heart it was pure fantasy that bore as much relation to reality as a John Wayne western, but it enjoyed an armchair safe popularity and within the genre Les Baxter's 1952 album 'Ritual of the Savage' is a benchmark with Martin Denny, Esquivel and Yma Sumac always getting honourable mentions in dispatches. 'She Wears Red Feathers' is part and parcel of the same though this time it's played for laughs.
Or perhaps more accurately, it's played for a patronising smugness that drips from every bar of the tribal musical flourishes to the "GEE WILLIKERS, aren't I just the craziest!!!!" tone ('cocynuts' indeed) that reaches it's nadir when Mitchell brings his exotic prize home for the 'boys at the London bank' to goggle at in amazement as she drinks tea with the white folk. This all may have worked had there been at least a spark of humour in there somewhere, but time has given it a nasty edge that a postmodern critic could dismiss as popularising ethnic imperialism but which I'd rather dismiss as 'annoying drek'.
An insanely popular star in the forties, Perry Como's own brand of crooning was already starting to sound a bit old and in the way by 1953, and in that respect this can be taken as an attempt to give a rusty image a fresh lick of paint. As a song, 'Don't Let The Stars Get In Your Eyes' has a tricksy meter that can fly with a good humoured zip when pouring from the right mouth. Como, however, tries to bend the tune to his own style of delivery and unfortunately the song is too stubborn to yield (in much the way 'Long Tall Sally' would soon refuse to yield to Pat Boone). The parping horns and matey joshing of the backing vocals try to raise it above ground level, but ultimately this is a dull version that's more Perry Coma than Como. And yes, hands up that's a rotten pun, but this is a rotten single so they kind of deserve each other.
After the satellite bounce of Kay Starr, the former Mr Elizabeth Taylor brings us back down to terra firma with a treacly squelch of a ballad that would have got a pat on the back from Al Martino. Knee deep in self pity, the one time Mr Debbie Reynolds has lost the woman he loves to a new husband and rather than letting go, he spends his days hanging around outside their house remembering the good times they shared ("I pass your house with misty eyes, there stands the gate to paradise") while a counterpoint mass of backing singers egg him on in his mildly stalker-ish activities.
The problem with 'Outside Of Heaven' is the complete lack of grit - though overwrought in tone, the ex Mr Connie Francis sounds more like he's singing for his supper club than genuinely busted up inside, and though it's meant to provide an 'ahhhhh, love never dies' kind of statement, his lack of emotional involvement just makes him seem creepily obsessive; the only emotion shining through here is the retarded kind.
To be fair, Eddie is giving his fans what they wanted and as far as that goes he's bound by the then popular 'Big Book Of Ballads' template with the overloaded backing strings being just part and parcel of the same. That, however, doesn't make this any more palatable to modern ears and to mine, 'Outside Of Heaven' is the epitome of all that was 'bad' about early fifties music in the same the way that Kajagoogoo sum up all that was bad about the eighties.
Well now this is more like it - the swing band backing to 'Comes A-Long A-Love' is lively enough to begin with and a lazy or lesser singer would have hidden behind it's bounce and ridden it in comfort, but Starr climbs straight into the saddle and quickly bests it into second place with a rapid fire vocal of verve with just enough predatory snarl to rough up the smooth edges. Very much a singer's song, you simply can't imagine a Cheryl Cole sticking their heads so far above the parapet as Starr does on this, and in so doing she manages to deliver one of the most modern (and joyous) sounding songs we're going to come across in quite a while. Nice one. On a trivia note, Kay Starr would be the only native American Indian to score a UK number one.
Another much covered song, 'You Belong To Me' had done the rounds before ending up with Jo Stafford, a pop cum jazz jack of all trades who perhaps spread herself too thinly to stand out with distinction in any one genre. As a song, it's the whole of Sinatra's 'Come Fly With Me' album crammed into three minutes; "Fly the ocean in a silver plane, see the jungle when its wet with rains" - the far flung exotic imagery was slightly cynically tailor made for an early fifties public just getting to grips with the expansion of commercial airlines and the opportunity for travel that came with it.
As you'd expect from a singer of Stafford's reputation, her vocal rings clear as a bell throughout, though there's a stilted hesitancy in her delivery that makes her sound more concerned with her diction than putting any real wallop behind it. But then again, the prim and proper understatement of the orchestra backing isn't conducive to the passion gloves coming off and I'd have liked this a whole lot better if that xylophone player had been made to sit on his hands. In short, it's a solid performance of a solid song that would have gone down smooth at the sort of dinner parties I'm not invited to, but it's never going to set my heather on fire.
.....and for proof of the pudding of 'Answer Me's popularity, here's another version of the same song at number one (it was actually tied at the top with David Whitfield for a while, making it the first and last time that the UK charts has ever had two versions of the same song at number one at the same time). Where Whitfield warbled like a milksop, Frankie is a man's man and his take is far more straight and direct - a bit too direct maybe; his 'Answer me my love' sounds more like a demand that should come with an exclamation mark at the end and he doesn't sound in much of an understanding mood throughout. "She was mine yesterday, and I believed that love was here to stay, won't you tell me where I've gone astray?" - well if your attitude toward women is the same as in 'Hey Joe' then you don't need to look too far for your answer Mr Laine, but at least now you know how your mate back then would have felt, you cuckolding heel.
