Thirty Days Hath September . . .

. . .  and I needed nearly all of them to coax autumn into my life. It finally came in on Monday, a windy, gray, chilly day, as I ran errands to the sound of Van Morrison’s Back on Top. It really is the best autumn album of all, and I should have known it would bring the season in.

If the album were by anybody else, I’d probably share a track here. But Morrison wants you to buy the record in order to hear it. That’s not a unreasonable request, but the paradigm for getting people to buy has changed in recent years. Internet publicity is a major component of promotion today—but Morrison didn’t get the memo. Early in 2008, he dispatched an outfit called Web Sheriff to Internet precincts near and far with orders to remove almost everything with his name on it—not merely posted tracks, but lyrics, video, and still pictures. Web Sheriff even went after sites that linked to such things without having posted them directly. And they’ve been on the case ever since. (I heard from them once, out here in this relatively quiet corner of the web, not with an official cease-and-desist, but with a “we appreciate your interest in Van Morrison” post that was undoubtedly intended to show that they were keeping an eye on me.)

So I was pleased to note last night that Van has started up an official YouTube channel with authorized video postings. Except every video includes a giant watermark that obscures the entire viewing window—which makes me wonder just what the hell’s the point.

As much as I love Van Morrison’s music, his attitude toward the Internet is silly, and ultimately bad for his career. Here’s why: There are lots of us on the Internet who respect and appreciate Morrison’s artistry, and whose interest in his music poses absolutely no financial threat to him—yet he treats us like we were breaking into his house to steal the flatware. His decision to shut down the fan site run by Michael Hayward at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver last year was as counterproductive a thing as I’ve ever witnessed—Hayward’s site was scholarly, he didn’t make a dime from it, and the articles and reviews on the site likely did more to promote Morrison’s back catalog than Morrison has done himself. Morrison should have been honored that Hayward was fan enough to create such a site without an economic incentive to do so. Instead, he had the place torched.

Record labels and recording artists who don’t get the new way of doing business in the digital age are going to find themselves left out of it. By assuming everyone on the Internet is a pirate, Morrison has proven he doesn’t get it. (Hell, the Beatles and EMI didn’t go after everybody who posted tracks from the recent remasters, and they’ve got more to lose than Morrison does.) It’s a basic tenet of business that you’ve got to spend some money to make some money, and in the digital era, you’ve got to give away some music to sell some music—just like you had to get it played on the radio back in the day. This idiotic watermarking of his videos is only the latest manifestation of Van Morrison’s unwillingness to understand how things work now.

So if you’d like to hear a live performance of “When the Leaves Come Falling Down,” a track from Back on Top which might be the single most gorgeous thing the man’s done in his brilliant 40-year career, click here, but don’t bother trying to watch. He doesn’t really want you to anyhow.

Varsity Nights

The star high-school football player, still in full uniform after the game, is met by his pretty girlfriend. They smile at one another, and he kisses her. The fan in his late 40s, who sees them on his way to the parking lot, feels a touch of envy and a pang of regret.

From impromptu recess games to physical education classes, I learned early on that I was no athlete. I was part of the nameless rabble of the ungifted, uncoordinated—and, by the time I was old enough for Little League baseball, unwelcome. Coaches were willing to work with kids who showed some natural talent; those of us who had none were shunted aside. We weren’t cut from the teams, and we got to play a little, but if we screwed up in the games, we got no coaching. Instead, our more athletic teammates were permitted to destroy us with scorn in the hope that we’d be so embarrassed that we’d quit. Eventually, I did.

If you had asked me in high school, I’d have told you that I didn’t care that I couldn’t play. I might even have copped Clint Eastwood’s famous line: “A man’s got to know his limitations.” I was an equipment manager for several different sports because I wanted to be around the games. If my job was unglamorous, it was also important—but it wasn’t being a player. To be a winner on a Friday night or a champion at the end of a season was indescribably alluring—all the more so because I knew I was never going to experience it.

We’ve been going to the games at my old school this season because our nephew is on the varsity. He doesn’t play much—only on special teams and in garbage time, when games are irrevocably lost. But even though he stands on the sidelines watching most of the time, at least he gets to put on the uniform. He does the work in practice, and he takes the risk inherent in being a teammate—and the risk, on game night, of failing when people are watching. Like Eastwood and me, he knows his limitations, but they don’t stop him the way they stopped me.

“You Cannot Win If You Do Not Play”/Steve Forbert (buy it here)

Listen Here

It’s One Hit Wonder Day today—a day for celebrating performers who hit the charts but one time and never again. And at this blog we’re celebrating performers who just made it. Earlier this week, we wrote about 13 records that records spent a single week on the Hot 100 in the anchor position and then fell out again, barely leaving a footprint on the sands of history. But there’s another, rarer achievement: peaking at Number 100 and holding the position for more than one week. Between 1955 and 1986, only six records managed the feat.

“Listen Here”/Brian Auger & the Trinity (2 weeks, from 10/10/70). That the prodigiously talented and creative Auger missed the American charts in the 60s is one of the bigger failures of mass taste from those days—his version of “This Wheel’s on Fire,” recorded with Julie Driscoll, got a little airplay in 1968 without denting Billboard. By the 1970s, he’d moved into funk and fusion almost exclusively. If you’re a fan of the B3 or the Fender Rhodes, his stuff is not to be missed. “Listen Here” was cut down to 3:34 from a 9:22 original, and I’m guessing it didn’t lose much—the long version is mostly improvisations on the same big riff.

“Don’t Ever Take Away My Freedom”/Peter Yarrow (2 weeks, from 4/8/72). Recorded after Peter, Paul and Mary had split, this song was strong enough (or Yarrow, or his label, had enough influence) to get Yarrow the opportunity to sing it on American Bandstand in May 1972.

“Hello Stranger”/Fire and Rain (3 weeks, from 6/30/73). This is a version of the song that had been a hit for Barbara Lewis in 1963 and would be a hit again for Yvonne Elliman in 1977. Fire and Rain was a husband-and-wife duo, Manny Freiser and Patti McCarron; Manny performed in the 80s under the name Ian Messenger. More here.

“Dance Little Lady Dance”/Danny White (2 weeks, from 2/26/77). This is apparently a cover of a song that was a big hit in Britain in 1976 for Tina Charles. White, from New Orleans, was a former member of Huey Piano Smith and the Clowns. When you Google this record, it turns up on several aerobic dance compilations.

“For Elise”/The Philharmonics (2 weeks, from 3/12/77). From an album called The Masters in Philadelphia, this is a disco version of Beethoven’s Fur Elise. It’s not exactly a surprise that somebody would try such a thing, given the success of Walter Murphy’s “A Fifth of Beethoven” only a few months before. The album also features Brahms’ Lullaby, which is given a mid-tempo R&B swing, and the 1812 Overture with some reggae touches that must be heard to be believed. While the album seems to have no connection with Gamble and Huff’s Philadelphia hit factory, this stuff sounds like it could have been from there, and I’ll wager some of the same musicians were involved.

“Discomania”/The Lovers (2 weeks, from 5/14/77). If you got a horse, you ride it: the same team who created and produced the Ritchie Family and scored with “The Best Disco in Town” late in 1976 tried it again with “Discomania,” which is another medley of disco songs. Apart from that, there’s little comparison. Although the medley numbers are well chosen, as they were on “The Best Disco in Town,” “Discomania” is saddled with an annoying main theme in which the singers don’t sing so much as yelp, and you probably won’t be able to endure the whole six minutes at the link above.

(Parenthetical observation: From 1978 until 1986, the end of the period we’re studying, no records peaked at Number 100, for a single week or otherwise. Perhaps this points to a change in chart methodology. Similarly, that no record peaked at Number 100 for more than one week before 1970 might also point to a change in methodology at that time. Someone who’s even more geeky for record charts than I—and until I started writing this blog, I didn’t know such people existed, but they do—might be able to say for sure.)

Here endeth our observance of One Hit Wonder Week. We’ll revisit the topic again on some future day, however, because that’s what we do around here.

Recommended Reading: A blog that’s new to me, 30 Days Out, has been writing about the Warner Brothers Loss Leaders, the series of two-buck-apiece samplers that are still taking up a lot of space on my shelves. Today’s post features Supergroup, the one I played more than any other. Over at The Vinyl District, Jon previews a new book about Casablanca Records that looks like a must-read.

“For Elise”/The Philharmonics
“1812 Overture/The Philharmonics (out of print)

Can’t Help Lovin’

(Edited to add WNEW.com links.)

It’s One Hit Wonder Week, when we celebrate the mysterious alchemy by which performer meets song meets historical moment and a hit record results, but never happens again. There’s a particularly interesting subset of the one-hit wonders: those who spent a single week at Number 100 in Billboard. Between 1955 and 1986, I find 13 of them.

“Itchy Twitchy Feeling”/The Swallows (9/22/58). A doo-wop group from Baltimore that started in the late 40s, the Swallows supposedly released a version of “I Only Have Eyes for You” several months before the Flamingos did. Joel Whitburn says that “Itchy Twitchy Feeling” is a cover of a hit version by Bobby Hendricks, who was a former member of the Swallows, but the Swallows’ bios I can find online don’t say that. So I dunno.

“The Chick”/Lee and Paul (3/30/59). Lee Pockriss and Paul Vance, that is, writers of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini,” the girl-group parody “Leader of the Laundromat,” the Cuff Links’ “Tracy,” and Clint Holmes’ 1973 glurge-fest “Playground in My Mind.” Listen to “The Chick” if you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Green Grass of Texas”/The Texans (3/27/61). The Texans are actually rockabilly legends Johnny Burnette and Dorsey Burnette, and the lengthy fade-in you hear here is the way the record is supposed to sound. Radio stations couldn’t have been too pleased.

“Can’t Help Lovin’ That Girl of Mine”/The Excels (6/10/61). In which this New York R& B group updates Rodgers and Hammerstein.

“Walking Back to Happiness”/Helen Shapiro (12/4/61). Shapiro was voted Britain’s top female singer in 1961 and scored a handful of major hits in the UK, but got only this sniff of the charts in the States. As an experiment, click this YouTube link but don’t look at the screen while you listen, picture Helen, then prepare to be surprised. More at Popular.

“Quarter to Four Stomp”/Stompers (3/3/62). Co-written by a G. Paxton, which could be Gary S. Paxton, who wrote, produced, and/or performed several hit songs in the early 60s, including the Hollywood Argyles’ “Alley Oop” and Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s “Monster Mash.” Or not.

“Goodbye Dad”/Castle Sisters (7/21/62). In which the bride bids her father goodbye before embarking on the honeymoon.

“Sweet Georgia Brown”/Carroll Brothers (8/18/62). Released on Philadelphia’s Cameo-Parkway label, but that’s all I know.

“Night Time”/Pete Antell (12/8/62). Antell and a partner had some studio time left after producing a session for another singer, so Antell cut “Night Time” as a demo.  He used the session musicians—who were not trained singers—to provide backup vocals. The demo found its way to Cameo-Parkway, which put it out just as it was. When Antell found out he said, “Put what out? This is just a demo!” More here.

“Please Don’t Kiss Me Again”/Charmettes (11/23/63). Written and produced by Kenny Young, who co-wrote “Under the Boardwalk” and songs recorded by Status Quo, the Searchers, Herman’s Hermits, and the Seekers. More here.

“Greetings (This Is Uncle Sam)”/The Monitors (4/16/66). In which a group of doo-woppers are invited to the festivities in Vietnam. The Monitors were on Motown; lead singer Richard Street would join the Temptations in 1971 and sing lead on “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” and “Masterpiece,” among others.

“Day Tripper”/The Vontastics (9/3/66). A Chicago group featuring somebody named Bobby Newsome, who wins a cojones award for taking sole writing credit. A YouTube commenter helpfully notes that the song was “covered” by the Beatles.

“Camel Back”/A.B. Skhy (12/6/69). Rockin’ the clavinet with a group featuring Howard Wales, sometime sideman with the Grateful Dead. More at Funky16Corners.

“Remember the Rain”/21st Century (5/31/75). Five young men from Chicago who grew up in the same housing project. Two of the backing musicians on their debut album are more famous than they are: Bongo Eddie Brown and Jack Ashford were both members of the Funk Brothers at Motown—although 21st Century wouldn’t join Motown until after “Remember the Rain.”

And there they are. Another half-dozen one-hit wonders in this period peaked at Number 100 but managed to stick for around more than a single week. We’ll get to those later.

Also: I blogged about some rockin’ married couples at WNEW.com yesterday and about some September 23 birthdays today. Also today, the live webcast of Rosanne Cash’s new album, The List, goes off at 1:00 U.S. Central right here.

Good Intent

Since I’ve been trying to get into a September frame of mind around here, and because Rosanne’s Cash’s forthcoming album, The List, is made up of songs from a list her father gave her and features several celebrity guests, my original plan was to blog about and post “September When It Comes” from Rules of Travel, on which Johnny Cash sings. But the best way for you to experience “September When It Comes” is to see the video tribute produced for Johnny’s 2003 memorial service at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. I can’t embed it here, but you can see it here, and you should.

So then I thought I’d write about my five or 10 favorite Rosanne Cash songs— except it’s too hard to pick just five or 10. I’d have to pick five off the Black Cadillac album alone—”Radio Operator,” “Burn Down This Town,” “God Is in the Roses,” “The World Unseen,” and “Good Intent,” maybe.

Let’s see how many I’d end up with if I tried to list them all: The insanely great “Ain’t No Money” and “It Hasn’t Happened Yet,” from Somewhere in the Stars, would make the list; so would “Western Wall,” which she’s cut twice, on 10 Song Demo and again on Rules of Travel. Also from 10 Song Demo, there’s “The Summer I Read Collette,” “Price of Temptation,” “Bells and Roses,” and—oh, hell, I could just take the whole album as my top 10, but it has 11 songs on it. “Hold On,” “I Don’t Know Why You Don’t Want Me,” “Never Be You,” and “Pink Bedroom” are on Rhythm and Romance. I’d have to grab “Our Little Angel” and “707″ from the Retrospective compilation, and “Rosie Strike Back” and “Runaway Train” from King’s Record Shop. And “Sleeping in Paris” from The Wheel.

And most of Seven Year Ache. And most of Interiors. So you see the problem. And why I’m giving up and moving on.

Recommended Reading: There was an interesting post last week at Something Old, Nothing New about the Beatles (and other music) in stereo and mono. Also, it was 40 years yesterday since Blind Faith hit Number One in the States with their one-and-only album. We observed the date at WNEW.com.

Later This Week: I hope to be able to observe One Hit Wonder day, which is Friday, with a one-hit-wonder themed post or two. If time permits. For the first time in a long time, it’s looking like that kind of week.

“Good Intent” (live on WXPN, 2006)/Rosanne Cash & John Leventhal (buy Rosanne here)

Take Me, I’m Ready

I am having trouble finding September.

In most years, I have to remind myself in July or August not to rush it—that September will come in the fullness of time. But this year, I’m afraid it won’t. The leaves are starting to turn, and so are the afternoons, filling with that distinctive golden color only autumn light has. But September is a state of mind, too, and this year, it’s a state whose border remains elusive. Maybe it’s just work. My main gig, freelance writing and editorial work, has kept me me busier lately than it has all year, and I have days on which I barely find time to breathe. Or maybe it’s just ennui. This is my 50th September. I know this: If I’m going to find September before it disappears like Brigadoon, music will be the road map.

If I were trying to find October, I’d go back to 1974, 1975, 1976. To find September, I’ll have to go further—back to where time began. Back to 1970, and to 1971. They’re years when I’m still a full-time child, but I’ve already heard my calling. I haven’t recognized it yet in 1970, but by 1971, if you ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll point to the radio and say, “I want to do that.”

Here’s a quick five from the Cash Box chart dated September 19, 1970:

7. “Candida”/Dawn (up from 10). One of the touchstones of this blog, and the first record I ever loved.
16. “Groovy Situation”/Gene Chandler (up from 19). My lifelong interest in R&B started here.
19. “Joanne”/Michael Nesmith & the First National Band (up from 25). The Monkees were never like this.
25. “Out in the Country”/Three Dog Night (up from 35). Contains the first metaphor I ever admired: “before the sun is just a bright spot in the nighttime.”
34. “Closer to Home”/Grand Funk Railroad (up from 42). I couldn’t have imagined in 1970 that one day, 1970 itself would feel like home.

And five more from the Cash Box chart precisely one year later:

5. “Spanish Harlem”/Aretha Franklin. My first Aretha record, and still the one I love the most.
10. “Maggie May”/Rod Stewart (up from 18). “It’s late September and I really should be back at school.” Whenever I had the radio on, the school that mattered most was in session.
25. “The Wedding Song”/Paul Stookey (up from 29). There is a grace and dignity in this record that I couldn’t have understood back then; neither could I have fathomed it would be sung one day at my own wedding.
30. “All Day Music”/War (up from 36). As close as anyone has come, in my experience, of translating the feel of a late September afternoon into music.
46. “Take Me Girl, I’m Ready”/Jr. Walker & the All Stars (down from 44). My first Jr. Walker record. I’d learn about “What Does It Take” and “Shotgun” later.

Some records were with us during the most important moments of our lives, and we can point to the memory and say yes, that’s the instant, right there, and here’s the song. None of these are like that. They’re memorable because they’re encoded with that September light from so long ago. And on this particular afternoon in 2009, they’re likely to find their way onto the box, because September is wasting, and I don’t want miss it.

“Joanne”/Michael Nesmith & the First National Band (buy it here)
“All Day Music”/War (buy it here)