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A Christmas song from 1956 that manages to sound a whole lot older and traditional than that, my biggest gripe about it all is that Belafonte's sing speak vocal is too hushed and reverential by half. It might suit the subject matter, but that doesn't necessarily make for a good single and Harry's respectful phrasing sounds borderline comical to my rather more cynical and secular ears.* "Oh a moment still worth was a glow, all the bells rang out there were tears of joy and laughter, people shouted "let everyone know, there is hope for all to find peace"; well kudos to him for trying to inject a little spirituality into what is essentially a commercial festival, but I'll take a rain check thanks.
* Boney M would run this through their disco machine to produce something far more celebratory, but then they went a spoiled the party by outstaying their welcome as the hosts looked at their watches and hinted it was time for bed.
I have to declare a conflict of interest up front here and say that, if it could ever be said that I have 'idols', then Buddy Holly would stand amongst their ranks; in the history of popular music, I can think of no other artist who wrote such a large quantity of what have now become cross genre classics or standards in such a short period of time. Saying that, 'That'll Be The Day' is not my favourite Holly song. Not this version anyway. And that's because after the opening jangle of twangy fender, the song falls into a rut of mid tempo stomp that maintains the same constant line through till the end.
Not that this is necessarily the fault of the song - an earlier version Holly and the band recorded for Decca in Nashville for veteran country producer Owen Bradley is a far more raucous, echo drenched affair that drips a primitive rock and roll verve and excitement from every pore (this is credited to 'The Crickets' only due to contractual issues with Decca over that earlier recording).
It's easy to see why Bradley was unimpressed; it's a step outside of some very old hat and into the future and that's precisely why it's the version I always return to. But it's not this one. Ironically, this later re-recording takes far more from country music than rock and roll, making it a surprisingly muted affair buffeted by some 'Ahhhhhhh' backing vocals that ensure it never quite catches fire. Holly's vocal hics and tics can be an acquired taste and though he colours the song with some of his trademark vocal gymnastics, they don't inject enough colour to counter the monochrome beat that may have sounded fine in old money but now seems leaden compared to the Presley that's been and the Jerry Lee to come.
Maybe I'm being a bit too hard here to overcompensate for my own personal appreciation of Holly, 'That'll Be The Day' remains a fine single, regardless of any shortcomings I highlight above. Holly may have stolen the title from John Wayne, but he gained ownership rights via a song that's gone down as one of his signature recordings, an instantly recognisable watermark of a single that Rolling Stone listed at 39 on their '500 Greatest Songs Of All Time' list. Not the I ever give much credence to anything Rolling Stone have to say, but Holly's bridging of pop, country and rock more than deserves its place. Even if I'd personally rank the earlier version higher.
Set to a busy, saxophone drenched layer cake of sound, 'Diana' is a catchy enough pop song that never quite rings true. Although fairly typical of its genre, at this remove it sounds more like a pastiche of the honking r&b and street doo wop it's celebrating than the real thing (to my ears it presents the sort of 'Angel Fingers' vibe that Wizzard came up with in the seventies). And I think that's chiefly down to Anka himself; there's something smug and patronising about hearing a sixteen year wailing "I'm so young and you're so old" in a voice that mistakes cockiness for confidence, especially one that contains neither grit nor grease. Instead, Anka's performance reminds me of someone reciting their twenty three times table by rote instead of mentally working out the figures as they go. He seems to believe the sheer force of his presentation and personality will be enough to knock the girl off her feet, and maybe it would have had the relentlessly ascending verses resulting in a hundred megaton pay off instead of limping to a close with an almost apologetically understated mumble of 'Diana' that sounds like a red faced schoolboy asking for condoms at the chemist. It's solid enough, but whether that's damning it with feint praise will be up to the listener.
John 
Lennon once famously said 'Before Elvis there was nothing'. I can't say I agree with that; we've just seen that there was plenty before Elvis, albeit not necessarily the sort of stuff Lennon would want to listen to. But wherever you place him in the chronology of the development of Western popular music there's no question that he presented an iconic magnetic north to which generations of musician turned their heads to the first time they picked up a guitar.
There was plenty before 'All Shook Up' too. Presley first troubled the UK charts in 1956 with 'Heartbreak Hotel' and it took nine subsequent singles before he got his first number one. 'All Shook Up' itself only reached number 24 before a re-entry took it to the top and it seems strange that with fayre like 'Heartbreak Hotel' and 'Mystery Train' on offer that the UK still preferred Pat Boone and Guy Mitchell (America itself had no such trouble in giving him number ones galore). But if this little project of mine has taught me anything, it's that there's no accounting for taste.
I know purists wave their copies of 'The Sun Sessions' aloft as the motherlode, but it's the post Sun, pre join up years at RCA that I return to most often and it's a period that 'All Shook Up' falls four square into. Written by Otis Blackwell (Presley's writing credit shouldn't be fooling anyone at this stage of the game) what I love most about 'All Shook Up' is that deep, sensuous voice spouting the confused "Well a bless my soul what's a wrong with me?" nonsense of a man so in love he doesn't know what he's saying; "I'm itching like a man on a fuzzy tree. My friends say I'm acting wild as a bug" Huh? "I'm in love, I'm all shook up". Ah!
Even in half mumble mode, Elvis sounds effortless, a star still in first gear and it's to those Mms and Uh-huh's that 90% of Elvis impersonators namecheck, even when they're wearing skin tight white jump suits. As a foundation for rock & roll it sinks twelve feet deep and the music too is understatement personified with a loose and low key boogie woogie piano rolling away in the background only broken by a frequently out of time percussive slap that sounds as confused as Elvis does. In fact, the song as a whole is littered with missed beats and stumbled meters ("Her lips are like a volcano and it's hot") that give it the feeling of a first take rehearsal instead of a finished product, but to my mind the lack of polish only adds to the mystery, one more thing for Elvis to try and make sense of. A fine debut number one - come in Mr Presley, we've been expecting you.
It's probably a bit too convenient to say that this recorded live double A side showcases both sides of Lonnie Donegan, the joker and the rocker. It's true that 'Putting On The Style' is an amiable piece of music hall clatter that's been a perennial family favourite ever since, but Donegan (as we will find out) was prone to travel much further left than that in the blatant party singalong stakes, and not always with pleasant results. As it stands, 'Putting On The Style' keeps on the right side of George Formby corn with added lines by Donegan that update the original's period talk of horses, courting and dramshops to hot rod sports cars and the hellfire of Satan. Decent rather than essential; 'Gamblin' Man' is where most of my interest lies.
An almost straight cover of Woody Guthrie's song, the liberties Lonnie doesn't take with the lyrics he makes up for with a jacked to the max performance that hits the ground with an innocuous canter and then just gets wild until Donegan sounds like a man possessed, hurtling through the verses and looped fire and brimstone "He's a gamblin' man man man" chorus with the bug eyed ferocity of a revivalist preacher on judgement day. The joined to his hip band steam along with him until a drum and guitar solo lets breaths be caught before they're off again twice and fast and twice and loud as before.
'Gamblin' Man' is a primal blast of energy that shreds the rest of the chart around it like (to cite a personal point of comparison) The Jesus And Marychain's 'Upside Down' did to Wham!, Billy Ocean, and Duran Duran in the November 1984 top ten. Except of course 'Upside Down' didn't get to number one. Or even chart at all. Which makes Lonnie's achievement even more remarkable - were people more open minded in 1957 I wonder, or was this bought on the strength of 'Putting On The Style' while its evil twin never saw the light of day? Whatever, 'Putting On The Style/Gamblin' Man' was the last UK single to be issued solely on 78rpm. I'd like to think that Lonnie's tune played no small part in the realisation that the old guard had had its day.
A lot of my recent comments have been concerned about how established stars tried to adapt to the changing of the guard from silents to the talkies once Elvis started wiggling his hips and nailed shut the door to tin pan alley. That some were less successful than others has been ably demonstrated, but on this Johnny Ray does better than most, not least because he avoids tackling the sea change head on by becoming your dad down the local disco and instead delivers a part homage, part pastiche take on the Bo Diddley sound.
There's precedent for that too - in May of that year, Buddy Holly cut a white bread version of 'Bo Diddley' that although faithful in structure, missed out on the voodoo of the original. Ray manages to go one better by adopting the style in essence but not losing sight of his own audience. It's all there on 'Yes, Tonight Josephine' - the shave and a haircut shuffle, the happy clappy female backing singers spouting a Greek chorus of nonsense ("Yip yip way bop de boom ditty boom ditty") and a lyric that exudes a lusty intent ("I will squeeze and hold you tight. Pack each kiss with dynamite"). It's 'Hey Bo Diddley' or 'Mona' in all but name and whilst Ray chugs through it with a purpose and swagger that befits Diddley himself, he deviates from Bo's template by not sourcing his bragging rights in rampant self belief and mythologising (one of Bo's trademarks), but by delivering a straightforward declaration of love that, thankfully, doesn't rely on any further plays on that awful title to get by. And by not trying to force on glass slippers that clearly don't fit, Ray makes 'Yes, Tonight Josephine' as accessibly joyous 'now' as it was 'then'.
The only UK number one for Andy Williams yet it's via a song that but rarely turns up on any 'Greatest Hits' or 'Best Of' sets. Why? Well I'd suggest two reasons. Firstly, 'Butterfly' hails from early in Williams's career, a time pre easy ballads and chunky cardigans where the emerging rock and roll stars were seen as competition. Or at least someone saw it that way - Williams himself sounds far less at ease here than even Guy Mitchell did on his previous foray into the genre and his voice struggles to find purchase amongst the choppy handclap rhythms; every time he tries to settle into his comfort zone the song speeds off from underneath, leaving him chasing shadows in a medium he's singularly ill suited to be dabbling in.
Secondly though, I think the song's content itself borders on the questionable; Andy is in love with a flighty woman who won't stay faithful ("You tell me you love me, you say you’ll be true, then you fly around with somebody new"). It's the old story - can't live with her, can't live without her ("I’ve made up my mind to tell you goodbye, but I’m no good without you, you butterfly") so to put an end to her galavanting he decides "I love you so much I know what I’ll do, I’m clipping your wings, your flying is through". Hmmmm. Whether this is metaphorical or whether he actually plans on keeping her chained up barefoot in the kitchen with the occasional pot in the gob to keep her in line isn't clear, but it's tone sits ill with the easy going, romantic persona that Williams was to dine off from the sixties on. With all this in mind then, to be honest, the whole song must be counted as a mistake, a misfire that does nobody any credit. Best leave it lie quietly in its grave.
A Christmas song from 1956 that manages to sound a whole lot older and traditional than that, my biggest gripe about it all is that Belafonte's sing speak vocal is too hushed and reverential by half. It might suit the subject matter, but that doesn't necessarily make for a good single and Harry's respectful phrasing sounds borderline comical to my rather more cynical and secular ears.* "Oh a moment still worth was a glow, all the bells rang out there were tears of joy and laughter, people shouted "let everyone know, there is hope for all to find peace"; well kudos to him for trying to inject a little spirituality into what is essentially a commercial festival, but I'll take a rain check thanks.
