(Spoilers for the Mad Men series finale are below, but if you’ve been online more than 30 seconds today, you already know how it ended.)
Mad Men ended last night with the fabled Coca-Cola commercial featuring “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.” I don’t know whether Don Draper took his Esalen experience back to New York and turned it into one of the most iconic ads of all time. The more I ponder it, however, the more I think that’s probably what the show means to suggest. Which is a cynical way to end the show—that for all the emotional pain Don felt in the final episode and those leading up to it, he ended up using it to sell something to people—but one in keeping with Mad Men‘s recurring theme that true change is impossible.
So let’s talk about “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.”
Adman Bill Backer of McCann Erickson hatched the idea on a weather-enforced layover at an airport in Ireland, then songwriters Roger Cook and Billy Davis blended the idea with a tune Cook had written with Roger Greenaway. Davis had been on the production staff at Motown and toured with the Four Tops; Cook and Greenaway had some success as performers as the duo David and Jonathan. Cook was also a member of Blue Mink. He and Greenaway were responsible for some of the finest British bubblegum: Greenaway teamed with the great Tony Burrows in the Pipkins (“Gimme Dat Ding”) and was also in the group Brotherhood of Man for a bit. Greenaway and Cook wrote “My Baby Loves Lovin’,” recorded by White Plains, and the Fortunes’ “You’ve Got Your Troubles.” They would eventually write “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” as well.
“I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” first hit the radio as a single early in 1971 under the title “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” by the New Seekers. It flopped. Radio stations resisted it, for obvious reasons—a free three-minute plug for Coke? I don’t think so—and Coca Cola bottlers didn’t like it much, either. (The company was just coming off a long run of success with the slogan “Things go better with Coke.”) Backer, however, believed so strongly in the concept that he persuaded McCann to spend what turned out to be $250,000 turning the song into a TV ad. The first attempt, intended to feature dozens of schoolchildren, was shot in Europe by cinematographer Haskell Wexler, but the film turned out to be unusable. The concept was scaled down and the footage shot by an Italian company, most of it in Rome. The New Seekers’ version of the song wouldn’t sync to the film, so a new version was recorded by a group eventually called the Hillside Singers.
When the commercial hit the air in America, in July 1971, it was so popular that people called radio stations asking to hear it. By the end of the year, two versions of the song, a recut version by the New Seekers and the version from the ad by the Hillside Singers, were on the charts. The Hillside Singers’ version first appears at ARSA on a survey from WPOP in Hartford, Connecticut, dated November 3, 1971. The New Seekers’ version first shows up at WIXY in Cleveland the next week, and hits the Top 10 there the week after that (and #1 a couple of weeks later). The Hillside Singers’ version made the Hot 100 first, on November 27, with the Seekers charting a week later. For the weeks of January 15 and January 22, 1972, the Seekers’ version held at #7 and the Hillside Singers’ version at #13 on the Hot 100. The Seekers’ version shows up on 255 charts at ARSA, compared to 185 for the Hillside Singers. It was by any measure a monster hit, although the Seekers had the better of it. But “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” didn’t stay on radio station playlists very long. Both versions were gone from the Hot 100 dated February 19, 1972, and I don’t recall hearing it much after that.
“I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” wasn’t the first time popular culture was used to sell us something—and not just a thing, but in true Don Draper fashion, an emotion. But it resonated with us like few other ads in history, and in that regard paved the way for the constant remixing of art and advertising we’ve lived with ever since.
For much that’s more interesting on the music used in seven seasons of Mad Men, click here.
January 29, 1971: The Partridge Family is in its first season, part of ABC’s fondly remembered Friday night lineup. The family’s #1 hit, “I Think I Love You,” is still on the radio, and in another week their followup single, “Doesn’t Somebody Want to Be Wanted,” will bubble under on its way into the Hot 100 and eventually, the Top 10.
On this particular Friday night, the Partridges have a problem. They’ve been booked into a club in Detroit, but it isn’t the posh hotel ballroom they’re expecting—it’s an old firehouse in a neighborhood they clearly find questionable, even nobody comes right out and says so. They park the bus, they go inside, and after a minute or two, one of the owners of the club slides down the pole.
Go ahead, click the link before you read any further. It’ll be more fun that way.
I like to binge-watch whole TV series on my lunch hours, an episode a day, every day. Lately, I’ve been watching Mannix, the CBS detective series starring Mike Connors, which ran eight seasons between 1967 and 1975. I’m not far enough into it to talk intelligently (or otherwise) about how it mirrors the culture of its time, although Mannix has his share of interludes with sweet young things dressed ’67-appropriate, and he drives a pretty cool car. I understand, from the tremendous profile of the series that appeared at the AV Club entirely by coincidence about the time I started rewatching, that in later seasons Mannix would embrace a trippy, almost avant-garde style for some sequences, but I haven’t seen much of that yet.
What’s most interesting about the first handful of episodes is that they contain appearances by fairly famous musical acts. The fourth episode, “The Many Deaths of St. Christopher,” aired on October 7, 1967. Joe Mannix meets a girl in a club called the Bad Scene, where a young singer with a guitar is performing—Neil Diamond, appearing as himself. In one sequence, Diamond performs “The Boat That I Row” and a song called “Raisin’ Cain,” which he has never formally recorded in all the years since. After a fight breaks out in the club and Mannix is knocked to the floor, Diamond walks over and says to him, “Hey man, you mind if I finish the set by myself?” In a second, shorter sequence, Diamond sings “Solitary Man.” On October 28, 1967, in “Warning: Live Blueberries,” an even-more-surprising act appears: in yet another club, the Buffalo Springfield play “Bluebird” through a better-than-five-minute scene, and come back later with a bit of “For What It’s Worth.”
Neither appearance was a walk-on by an unknown. By October 1967, Neil Diamond had scored five top-20 hits since the previous August, including “Cherry Cherry,” “Girl You’ll Be a Woman Soon,” and “Thank the Lord for the Nighttime.” “Kentucky Woman” would chart the week after his Mannix appearance. The Buffalo Springfield had been to the Top 10 with “For What It’s Worth” in the spring of 1967; “Bluebird” and “Rock ‘n’ Roll Woman” both missed the Top 40, but their debut album had a 16-week run on the charts beginning in the spring. Neither does a lip-synch; Diamond appears to be playing live, while the Springfield sing “Bluebird” live over a recorded backing track and do “For What It’s Worth” unplugged. How well known either act was to the typical adult viewer of a detective show isn’t clear at 47 years’ distance. Nevertheless, it’s pretty cool to watch them now.
A more obscure group would appear on Mannix a year later, but they were not utterly unknown. The Peppermint Trolley Company did their spot in November 1968 on an episode called “Who Will Dig the Graves?” Their lone Hot 100 hit (which wasn’t what they sang on the show) was “Baby You Come Rollin’ Across My Mind” in the summer of 1968. You know them better as the group that wrote and performed the Brady Bunch theme.
So in his early years on the job, Joe Mannix had a hipness factor slightly higher than other TV detectives. Even without the rock stars, he comes off as much less of a stick-in-the-mud than his TV contemporary Steve McGarrett, and although Mannix was criticized for its high level of violence—I have yet to see an episode without a fistfight—its moments of darkness are few, at least as far as I’ve gotten. It cracked the top 30 in five of its eight seasons, including a rank of #7 for 1971-1972. Still, it was and will not ever be as beloved as Hawaii Five-O, get remade like Five-O, or receive a big-screen reboot, at least until Hollywood runs even further out of ideas than it appears to be right now.
I was interested to note in research for this post that Mike Connors is still alive, 89 years old this summer, and married to the same woman since 1949. Impressive.
(Don Cornelius, pictured here in 2010, created Soul Train as a vehicle not just for black music but for black youth and black pride. But he didn’t hesitate to make white artists part of the show.)
It’s one of the great music trivia questions: Who was the first white artist to appear on Soul Train? The most popular answers, Elton John, Gino Vannelli, and David Bowie, are all wrong.
In The Hippest Trip in America: Soul Train and the Evolution of Culture and Style, Nelson George settles it definitively. “The first white American acts on Soul Train were instrumentalists, not singers, which probably explains why they aren’t well remembered.” The groundbreaking performer was one of the top session cats in the business, Dennis Coffey, who performed his solo hit “Scorpio” in January 1972. Tower of Power was next, fronted by black vocalist Lenny Williams but featuring a number of white musicians, appearing in November 1973.
Vannelli appeared in February 1975, singing the spectacularly underrated “People Gotta Move.” George says that the circumstances of Vannelli’s booking (over three years before his breakout hit, “I Just Wanna Stop”) are bit unclear. Vannelli opened some shows for Stevie Wonder in 1974, and he claims Soul Train’s producers invited him on after that. Don Cornelius told an interviewer that Vannelli’s handlers asked for the booking. Eventually, Vannelli says he asked Cornelius why he’d had him on, because “I’m obviously not a black artist.” Cornelius responded, “Well, I consider you off-white.”
(Johnny Cash hated the idea of doing a circus-themed episode of his TV show, even fearing ABC would demand he sing “I Walk the Line” while holding a chimp. He ended up holding the chimp, but didn’t have to sing to it.)
We have praised The Johnny Cash Show, which ran on ABC from 1969 to 1971, as a show more serious about pop and rock music than variety shows of an earlier day. But according to Cash biographer Robert Hilburn, the show viewers saw was not the show Cash envisioned.
Cash thought he was making a country music show. ABC told the press it would include stars from all fields. Production company Screen Gems suggested the show would be “85 percent music and some comedy.” Cash insisted that Screen Gems hire a guy named Stan Jacobson, who ended up neither a producer nor a talent booker but merely a writer. As a result, he and Cash had little input into the first-season guest list. They got Bob Dylan, whom Cash wanted, as well as Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, Linda Ronstadt, and Creedence Clearwater Revival, but Screen Gems and ABC insisted on stars who would cross-promote other shows they owned, leading to appearances by the Cowsills and the Monkees, a random selection of Hollywood stars including Dan Blocker and Eddie Albert, and comedians including the rubber-faced Charlie Callas.
The Johnny Cash Show premiered in June 1969, at the same time the eventual #1 album Johnny Cash at San Quentin was released. It was not especially popular in big cities but was a smash in smaller ones and in rural areas. There was little question the show would be renewed for 1970. Cash insisted that the second season would have “more of my own people,” and it did. Stan Jacobson was promoted to co-producer, and the guest lists improved in the next two seasons: Merle Haggard, Marty Robbins, Loretta Lynn, Ray Charles, Charley Pride, Neil Diamond, Stevie Wonder, Louis Armstrong, Neil Young, the Staple Singers, James Taylor.
About the time the show launched, evangelist Billy Graham became Cash’s spiritual adviser, and Cash began appearing at Graham’s televised crusades. During the second season, the recurring “Ride This Train” travelogue segment frequently featured gospel songs. During an early third-season episode, Cash read a lengthy statement about his religious faith. “Lately I think we’ve made the devil pretty mad because on our show we’ve been mentioning God’s name . . . . and [Satan] may be coming after me again, but I’ll be ready for him. In the meantime, while he’s coming, I’d like to get in more licks for Number One.” Jacobson believed it was the turning point in the show’s demise—that viewers were turned off by the show’s increasing religiosity—although Hilburn points out that variety shows were falling out of favor then. And 1971 was also a time in which networks continued to get rid of rural-themed (and rural-popular) shows to chase after more affluent urban viewers.
With declining ratings, ABC insisted on a format change to what it called “theme nights,” some of which Cash hated. In the spring of 1971, ABC announced the show would not be back in the fall. Cash would later criticize “all the dehumanizing things that television does to you.” But he appears to have been caught in the same undertow that has claimed a lot of talented people in TV—what happens when a strong artistic vision clashes with a more powerful partner’s need for ratings and money.
The TV experience may have felt dehumanizing to Cash, but it resulted in three of the most humane songs he ever recorded. “Sunday Morning Comin’ Down,” written by Kris Kristofferson, first appeared in February 1970 on “Ride This Train.” Cash sang it live on the April 8 show. (It didn’t come without controversy that night: Cash had to argue with a network rep to preserve the line “I’m wishin’ Lord that I was stoned,” which the network wanted changed to “I was home.”) “What Is Truth” is what Hilburn calls “a less confrontational take on Dylan’s defense of youth in ‘The Times They Are a Changing.'” It was a powerful message in the spring of Kent State, especially amid growing exasperation with the antiwar movement and the counterculture among older and more conservative Americans—Cash’s fan base. “Man in Black,” in which Cash explains that he dresses in black in solidarity with the downtrodden (despite having worn black onstage for most of his career), was taped before an audience of college students at Vanderbilt University late in 1970.
As Hilburn observes, the songs “largely established Cash as a symbol of American honor, compassion, and struggle,” neither blindly reactionary nor too much for Mrs. and Mrs. Middle America at the precise moment when such things seemed impossible. They’re the lasting legacy of The Johnny Cash Show.
(Pictured: Possibly the most unflattering picture of Cher ever published, going it alone on the Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour stage, as she eventually would on her own stage.)
If you lived in the the three-channel TV universe between 1971 and 1974, you saw The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour. It was a top-10 hit throughout its run. But 40 years ago this winter, Sonny filed for divorce, and two days later the couple taped what was to have been the season finale but turned out to be the series finale. It aired on May 29, 1974.
Such bankable acts were not destined to be off TV for very long. CBS signed Cher for her own variety show, which was to premiere midseason, early in 1975. ABC, meanwhile, signed Sonny for a show (The Sonny Comedy Revue) that would beat Cher to air, going on in September 1974. Sonny had the advantage of keeping the writers, the bits, and many of the cast members (“We’ll be missing one,” he remarked) from the original Sonny and Cher show. Cher, meanwhile, had the advantage of being Cher. ABC put The Sonny Comedy Revue in the highly viewed 7:00 Central time slot on Sunday nights. CBS announced that Cher would run Sunday nights at 6:30 when it went on the air later that season. But the anticipated head-to-head duke-out never happened. The Sonny Comedy Revue attracted neither kind reviews nor a big audience. It aired for the last time on December 29, 1974.
Cher didn’t premiere until February 12, 1975, but when it did, it came in with a bang: guest stars on the premiere were Elton John, Bette Midler, and Flip Wilson. Although the premiere made a splash, the show was not an especially big hit, placing #23 for the season (despite being the first TV show on which a woman was permitted to display her navel, allegedly). CBS retooled the show for its second season, but the ratings were even lower. It aired for the last time on January 4, 1976—but not necessarily because of the ratings, as we shall see.
On the first show, Elton performed “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” recently the #1 song in America, and sang “Bennie and the Jets,” a #1 single one year earlier, with Cher. (You can see several clips from the premiere here.) After the premiere, the guest list settled into typical mid-70s TV territory with guests including Cloris Leachman, Liberace, Nancy Walker, Tim Conway, and McLean Stevenson. The Osmonds, the Jacksons, the Pointer Sisters, Labelle, Kris Kristofferson and Rita Coolidge, Ike & Tina Turner, Art Garfunkel, and Gregg Allman (about the time Cher married him) were first-season musical guests.
Next to Elton, Cher’s most interesting musical guest appeared in November of 1975. In the fall of that year, David Bowie was doing a great deal of American TV. In early November, he did The Dick Cavett Show and also appeared on Soul Train, nervously answering questions from the kids in the audience after, it is said, having a few drinks to calm himself. (This was also a time in which he admits to having consumed vast amounts of cocaine; he has said that he doesn’t remember recording “Golden Years,” one of the songs he sang on Soul Train.) Sometime in December, he and his band taped the daytime talk show Dinah! with Dinah Shore, where they burned down the house (and the housewives watching) with “Stay” from Bowie’s then-new album Station to Station. And in between, he appeared on one of the final episodes of Cher. The two singers did a version of Bowie’s “Young Americans” sandwiched around a medley of familiar pop and rock songs, a Vegas-type thing that actually works. (There was more of the showbiz trouper in Bowie than anybody in 1975 expected.) He also performed his recent hit “Fame,” doing a live vocal over the record’s backing track, accompanied by what were then state-of-the-art trippy TV graphics.
By this point in Cher’s run, she may have been willing to bring on performers beyond the TV variety show norm—David Essex, never a big name in America, would appear on a December show—because she was done. After only a handful of episodes into the second season, Cher decided to end her own show and go back on TV with Sonny in 1976.