“You Turn Me On (Turn On Song)” by Ian Whitcomb and Bluesville (1965, #8)

One person’s view:  “It’s a musical disaster with one of the very worst vocal performances of any song in history.” – dagwood525 @ Rate Your Music

The public’s view:  2.70 / 5.00

I can relate to Ian Whitcomb’s struggles with “You Turn Me On”, because I once suffered a similar bit of self-inflicted damage to my artistic reputation.  It happened when I was about 8 years old and my class was told to craft lifelike portraits of dragons using pastel crayons and construction paper.  Each of us had to make two dragons, so it seemed logical to me that one should be male and the other female.  And, sadly, dragons do not wear clothes.

I don’t know why I thought that anatomically correct dragons were a good idea, but I suppose they fit in to my unsuccessful years-long campaign to get expelled from my Catholic school so that I could go to a normal one.  When the teacher saw my female dragon, she was not happy.  “I don’t like this at all,” she said with a frown.  I braced myself for her critique of my other creation, whose sizeable dragonhood was even more obvious than the pink dots on Mrs. Dragon’s triple-Ds.  Her reaction to the male dragon was not what I expected.  “Oh, this is fantastic work!,” she gushed.  “I’m hanging it in the hallway so that all the classes can see it, and it will be on display for next week’s open house.”

This was a particularly poor piece of art, even by the low standards I had set with my previous pencil sketches of dogs with trapezoidal heads.  Aside from carefully applying a thin layer of glue to the dragon’s scrotum to give it a bumpy texture, I had put no effort into it.  If not for the beast’s obvious state of arousal, an onlooker might have mistaken him for a dinosaur from The Flintstones.  I instantly regretted that this work would be my legacy.  Nude studies of dragons might appeal to the rubes in Sister Thaddeus’s 4th grade class across the hall, but the sophisticated glitterati attending the school’s open house would never be impressed by something so clichéd and so badly executed.

Given creative freedom and the right budget, I knew I could do much better.  I asked my teacher if I could construct a different dragon-themed piece for the hallway exhibition.  I envisioned a mural of a dragon burning the school down with its fiery breath.  Sister Thaddeus would be shown screaming amid the flames, having waited too long to flee because she assumed it was another one of my hilarious prank fire alarms.  I was told that this concept wasn’t realistic, however, because our building was 90% asbestos and wouldn’t combust even if launched into the Sun.  Besides, my teacher wasn’t just trying to teach me a lesson for my flippant attitude toward the assignment.  She genuinely loved Mr. Dragon and his textured scrotum, even if the only fire he would ever light was the one in her heart.

Ultimately, my instincts proved correct.  My dragon was not well received at the school’s open house, and no visitors expressed interest in acquiring him for their collection.  When I got him back I tore him into pieces and flushed him down the toilet.

It was much the same experience for Ian Whitcomb when he learned that the record company would promote “You Turn Me On” as his big career-defining single.  This song had some of the same qualities as the recent Newbeats hit “Bread and Butter”:  overtly sexual lyrics, a guy using a preposterously high voice, and a repetitive beat that reminds today’s listeners of the Sesame Street theme.  However, it lacked anything that could fairly be described as songwriting, production, or singing.  The whole thing was just a joke that he and his band did to burn a few minutes of pre-paid studio time at the end of a session.  Whitcomb improvised the song on the spot, including a part of the chorus that sounds like he was reaching more than just a musical climax.  An ashtray was knocked off of his piano at one point, marring the recording with a noisy crash, and no one cared.  This wasn’t intended for public consumption.

Whitcomb objected to the label’s decision.  Why not push one of his other songs that was more representative of his style, and in which he didn’t sound like an inmate of an insane asylum?  The label insisted that “You Turn Me On” was the record that would make him a star.  At any other time in history, the execs would have been proven wrong and this song would have met the same fate as my pastel artwork.  Whitcomb was probably already searching public bathrooms for a drain big enough to swallow a reel-to-reel tape.  This was 1965, however, and Englishmen like him were a hot commodity.  That alone was enough for his worst song to catch on in parts of the U.S.

It was the risqué lyrics that took the song to the next level of commercial success.  Whitcomb’s sarcastically high vocal was about as erotic as a Mickey Mouse impersonation, but the puritans who had slept through the reign of “Bread and Butter” were suddenly more attuned to the subversive nature of rock music.  They began calling for “You Turn Me On” to be banned, which only fueled its sales.  After it was publicly condemned by the mayor of Portland, Oregon, its popularity soared and it headed straight for the top ten.

I’m going to test whether this also works for blogs.  This message is for Portland Mayor Keith Wilson:  Go dunk your head in the Columbia River, you hyperpartisan nincompoop.  I hope Mt. Hood erupts and covers your city with smelly lava, and I hope the Trail Blazers move to Eugene and take the Moda Center with them.  I look forward to reading an outraged press release from you shortly.  We now return to our regular programming.

While “You Turn Me On” brought Whitcomb money and groupies, which is more than my artwork ever did for me, it didn’t get him the respect he was seeking.  Many of his fellow British musicians thought that it had embarrassed their entire country.  He soon left the business of making pop records, with a measure of disgust about the industry, and later got into music journalism.  If he hadn’t passed away a few years ago, maybe he would have offered to take my job so you wouldn’t have to read any more unwanted tangents about my childhood.

So, can this song be enjoyed at all, or is it irredeemable?  I think it can be appreciated as a novelty, simply because Whitcomb’s wailing is so defiantly awful.  You can imagine him raising both middle fingers to his label’s management as he does his squeaky moaning, before saying “Release that as a single, bitch!”  Then the label says, “OK, we think we will.”

My rating:  3 / 10

“Bread and Butter” by the Newbeats (1964, #2)

One critic’s view:  “This guy sang like he just inhaled some helium while being tortured in hell.” – Mike Oliver @ My Vinyl Countdown

The public’s view:  2.93 / 5.00

Larry Henley of the Newbeats had a unique gift:  he could sing like a woman.  This was more than just a falsetto like Frankie Valli’s or a bizarrely high male voice like Michael Jackson’s.  Henley was able to sound like an honest-to-gosh ovary-packing woman whenever he felt like it.  Of course, he recognized that this was something of a parlor trick and couldn’t be the whole basis of a music career.  If you needed someone to do a female vocal, there were thousands of women singers who would oblige – and you could pay them less than a man.  Henley’s special talent was utilized on one hit single, and one only, but he sure made the best of it.

Henley’s remarkable soprano is what everyone remembers about “Bread and Butter”, but the lyrics don’t get nearly enough credit.  This was almost certainly the filthiest hit record of the 1960s.  While it isn’t morally depraved like “Little Children”, it does take us on a musical and culinary tour of all of the sex acts and related body parts and fluids that were known in the U.S. at the time.  (If this song had come from Scandinavia, it wouldn’t have clocked in at only 1:58.)  Considering that even the Kingsmen’s harmless “Louie Louie” was under fire for supposedly pornographic lyrics, it’s astonishing that no one raised any significant objections to “Bread and Butter”.  Either Henley’s outlandish vocals successfully diverted people’s focus from the actual content of the Newbeats’ song, or else parents and clergy were too busy investigating the subliminal horrors contained within the Singing Nun’s Belgian babbling.

Despite consisting entirely of sexual double entendres, “Bread and Butter” somehow managed to become a favorite of advertisers.  According to Wikipedia, it was even used in a Walmart TV ad a few years ago.  I never saw that commercial, but I imagine it had this voiceover:

“At Walmart, we like bread and butter as much as you do.  Toast and jam is not our thing at all, but we don’t judge.  And if there’s cheese on your sandwich, one of our friendly pharmacists can help.  Stop by the bakery and watch us lovingly beating our batter by hand.  You’ll walk away with a couple of hot biscuits bulging out of your bag!  Show your biscuits to the greeter on the way out, and he’ll gladly put some gravy on them.  Now your local Walmart has a new treat:  Nutella on a Kaiser roll.  You can get it behind the store at 10 PM.  Save money.  Live better.  At Walmart.  Offers may vary in Utah.”

“Bread and Butter” shows up on a lot of “worst song” lists, and it’s easy to understand why.  It is extremely catchy, but also remarkably repetitive and almost instantly irritating.  After you’ve figured out what each food represents, it’s time to toss the record in the trash.  This endeavor with the Newbeats wouldn’t be the last time that Larry Henley would do something to upset music listeners.  He also co-wrote Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings”, which I reviewed on my Bad #1 Hits blog, and he allegedly encouraged his friend Bobby Goldsboro to record “Honey”.  These were the only hit records that Henley was ever connected to, and all three would be ideal selections for a compilation CD:  Now That’s What I Call Eviction!  Songs to Play to Get a Squatter to Move Out of Your Basement.  When it was time to cause human suffering, this guy knew how to get it done.

Although it doesn’t stand up whatsoever to repeat play, I actually have a lot of respect for “Bread and Butter”.  The Newbeats pulled one over on the censors and completely got away with it, while Larry got to show off his amazing skill.  I don’t particularly want to hear the song again, but I don’t need to hear it for it to bring a smile to my face.

My rating:  6 / 10

“Little Children” by Billy J. Kramer with the Dakotas (1964, #7)

One journalist’s view:  “To the blessedly uninitiated, and in any context, this is arguably the creepiest pop hit ever written.” – Sadie Stein @ The Paris Review, “Worst.  Kid.  Song.  Ever.”

The public’s view:  2.89 / 5.00

There are many historical bits of pop culture that we look back on and say, “That aged about as well as an ice cream sandwich in my armpit on a hot July day.”  Much of the time, however, people say that about things that were inappropriate in the first place.  “Little Children” hasn’t aged poorly.  It was a terrible idea from the start.

In “Little Children”, Billy J. Kramer is singing to a group of kids who have caught him doing something very naughty.  He must keep them quiet, so he issues vague threats.  “I’m tellin’ you, little children, you better not tell what you see.”  This isn’t working, so he moves on to bribery.  “I’ll give you candy and a quarter.”  Then he gets frustrated with these brats’ presence and possibly with their very existence.  “I wish they would go away, little children.”  Murder is not off the table.

Up until the bridge, which isn’t heard until the latter half of the song, we aren’t told what misdeed needs to be concealed.  We must make an educated guess based on the clues that we have.  We know the transgression was of sufficient gravity for the dude to pay hush money to cover it up.  We know it occurred in a location where he can get candy to effectuate this bribe.  We also know that the man’s wrongful actions are something that even a young child would recognize as unusual and might excitedly blab about.  (The kids probably aren’t going to turn him in to the SEC for insider stock trading.)  Applying Occam’s Razor, we deduce that the simplest explanation is also the most likely:  the children saw the narrator engaging in an extremely improper act with a jar of Ragu at the grocery.

I know some people won’t come to the same conclusion.  “Oh, he just doesn’t want the kids telling everyone that he ran over the neighbors’ dog,” an unworldly naïf might believe.  That simply doesn’t fit the scenario as well.  For me, the evidence is quite clear:  the man in the lyrics did something unwholesome in an indoor place, probably a store, and the meddling tykes witnessed it despite his attempt at discretion.  I will concede that it didn’t necessarily involve pasta sauce; he may be more of a Chiffon margarine guy.  However, this isn’t my imagination running amok.  The songwriters want us to hear lewdness in “Little Children”, because the vile details that we provide with our own brains are what keep us listening.  The music won’t do it by itself, as it is only average at best.

There are two clever directions that “Little Children” could take with this concept in its second half.  One is to subtly reinforce the obscene mental image that the lyrics have painted.  There could be a lament about A&P banning the singer from the entire grocery chain, or a verse in which the little children refuse to say why they won’t eat the lasagna that everyone else loves.  It would still be a gross song, but the humor might keep it afloat.  The other option would be to shatter our assumptions by revealing an unexpectedly innocent explanation for why the kids need to keep a secret.  It turns out that they are the narrator’s own children, and he doesn’t want them giving away the surprise party he is planning for their mom’s 38th birthday.  Now the joke is on the listener for having a dirty mind.

Unfortunately, “Little Children” follows a third path.  We ultimately learn that the little children caught the narrator in flagrante delicto with their sister, and are being ordered not to tell their parents about it under any circumstance.  Wow.  This is no longer a victimless crime that can be remedied with a quick cleanup in the spaghetti aisle.  I like to defend controversial songs, but here it is too much of a stretch.  Under the most generous interpretation, the narrator’s girlfriend could theoretically be of legal age with a gap of many years between her and her young siblings.  The lyrics don’t rule this out, but then we would need to invent a different reason why the guy is so worried about the woman’s parents finding out about the relationship.  Perhaps they will disinherit her if she dates someone who isn’t a Zoroastrian?  Once again, Occam’s Razor tells us that this probably isn’t the case.  Let’s just accept that the simplest, and most disturbing, explanation is the correct one:  the singer will be going to jail if the kids tell the grown-ups what they have seen.

Billy J. Kramer didn’t write “Little Children”, so he doesn’t deserve all of the blame.  I have to wonder, though, why he didn’t stop the recording and ask for a rewrite of that awful second half of the song.  “You know, chaps, we shouldn’t have the guy be that big of a perv.  Maybe he could just enjoy a good wank at Tesco every now and then.”  In any event, this was his biggest hit and he has to live with the consequences.  Imagine headlining a nostalgia show at age 70, and the one song you absolutely must perform is about giving kids candy to shut them up about what you’re doing with their sister.

My rating:  1 / 10

“Don’t Let the Rain Come Down (Crooked Little Man)” by the Serendipity Singers (1964, #6)

One critic’s view:  “[W]hat the hell do people like about this schlock? ...  The best I can come up with is that the Serendipity Singers evoke memories of a simpler time, when dad went off to work, mom stayed in the kitchen, and everybody’s tastes in music were for shit.” – TVD HQ @ The Vinyl District, in a review of the Serendipities’ greatest hits compilation

The public’s view:  2.57 / 5.00

I had never heard of the Serendipity Singers until I researched the history of unloved top 10 hits for this blog, but their name gave me an idea of what they might sound like.  I suspected that they were closer to the Mike Curb Congregation than they were to Slipknot, and I was right.  The Serendipities were a nine-member group from Colorado that was designed for people who liked folk music but who didn’t want the liberal connotations.  The group did dabble in the political arena by performing for LBJ in 1964, which was not a terribly controversial move in that landslide year, but it’s a huge stretch to find an ideological message in their lyrics.  If there is any such meaning in “Don’t Let the Rain Come Down”, you have to go deep down a gopher hole to find it.  Naturally, someone did.

“Don’t Let the Rain Come Down” is based on a centuries-old nursery rhyme about a man who buys some nails to mend the leaky roof of his house.  This poem was probably written as either a fun diversion for children or as a radio jingle for a medieval hardware store, but some scholars have refused to accept either hypothesis.  Rather, they suggest that the man’s crumbling abode is a metaphor for the uneasy alliance between Scotland and England.  I’m skeptical of this analysis, which relies on multiple iffy assumptions, but a Ph.D. is a license to reinterpret any work as long as the author is too dead to object.  One professor used to maintain that “Humpty Dumpty” was an allegory about the Royalist army’s siege of Gloucester in 1643, and other historians nodded their heads and agreed until someone with common sense stepped in to debunk this theory.  I’m waiting for some random academic to claim that “Baby Sittin’ Boogie” was intended as a brutal satire of Henry VI’s conduct during the Wars of the Roses.

I doubt that the Serendipities had any strong feelings about England or Scotland, other than wishing that the Royalist army would put a siege on Liverpool.  When “Don’t Let the Rain Come Down” was at its peak, it had to compete with three Beatles records that were in the top 10 at the same time.  It was a close call as to which would ultimately be the bigger of the two acts, but the Serendipities did not prevail.  They followed their one big single with a track called “Down Where the Winds Blow” and a tune about beans, but I can’t think of anything cute to say about those two songs.  Eventually the group got tired of tooting its own horn and making a big stink, so it squeaked out the back door and disbanded.  A different lineup of musicians later used the Serendipity Singers’ name to campaign for the Young Republicans, thereby blowing the act’s folk legacy away with a cloud of noxious gas.  These replacements for the original Serendipities weren’t exactly silent but they were deadly.

While “Don’t Let the Rain Come Down” may not be the most inventive song of the decade, the Serendipities had enough personality to make this mundane story about roof repair somewhat interesting.  I especially like the rendition from the group’s reunion concert, with the little flourish in which one of the performers raps on his colleague’s bald head.  Even if the lyrics really are some coded message about Scotland, this record still beats a whiney love ballad any day of the week.  I just wish we knew whether the guy with the bad roof actually does drown when it finally starts raining.

In an alternate dimension, music historians classify 1964 as the year of the Colorado Invasion and praise the Serendipity Singers as “The Fab Nine”.  It isn’t a bad dimension to visit, though I wouldn’t want to live there.

My rating:  7 / 10