“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

“Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport” by Rolf Harris (1963, #3)

One person’s view:  “‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport’ is awful.  The musicianship and production is ramshackle, and the lyrics are first draft levels of bad.” – music blogger Dr. Nelson Winston

The public’s view:  2.67 / 5.00

If you were trying to write a commercially successful song, you’d likely settle on a popular lyrical theme like romance, dancing, partying, or making fun of Drake.  You probably wouldn’t draft a dying declaration from an Australian rancher to his buddies, charging them with the disposition of his animals and his remains.  But that’s because you are not Rolf Harris.  Harris was lured back from England to his Aussie homeland to host a children’s TV show, a hiring decision that looks about as smart in hindsight as asking the Sex Pistols to mind the evidence locker at a police station.  This relocation led to perhaps the most bizarre top 10 single of the 1960s.

The narrator of “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport” owns a veritable menagerie of Australian wildlife, and each one requires a certain level of attention.  He starts by telling one friend to watch his wallabies feed, cautioning him that they are a dangerous breed.  He goes on to explain that his cockatoo must be kept cool, his platypus must not run amok, and, most important of all, his kangaroo must be tied down.  After the rancher finally dies, his hide is tanned and hung on a shed in accordance with his wishes.  It’s an unusual estate plan overall, but it cleverly avoids inheritance taxes.

Now I must address something unpleasant.  I’ve discussed several controversial songs here and on my #1 hits blog, and have mostly defended them from the political correctness crowd.  I wouldn’t hire Pat Boone or Jason Aldean to provide the entertainment at a civil rights rally, or probably anywhere else, but I don’t think that their songs have racist lyrics.  It’s harder to stick up for “Tie Me Kangaroo Down”, and I’ll explain why.

It turns out that the rancher owns several aboriginal people as slaves, or is at least keeping them in some kind of bondage involving forced labor.  He asks his friend Lou to let them “go loose” upon his death, because they are “of no further use”.  But that’s not the worst part.  These human chattels are on a list with livestock, and they rank behind four different types of animals among the rancher’s concerns.  The dude could expire at any moment and needs to prioritize his instructions, yet he mentions the damn kangaroo three times before he gets around to freeing his workers!  This is as if George Washington’s will had said:  “I beseech my dear friend Alexander Hamilton, who I love as much as one straight man can love another, to clean the cage of my hamsters, Snookums Woo Woo and Cutie Pie.  They are a dangerous breed.  Oh, and he can emancipate my useless slaves if he gets a chance, but the important thing is the hamsters.”

You can make a compelling argument that “Tie Me Kangaroo Down” is one of the biggest disasters in the history of recorded music.  Rolf Harris was a native Australian, yet his lyrics about his own country sound like something Ray Stevens wrote in five minutes while sitting on the toilet.  The song has the tone of a children’s sing-along, but there are multiple reasons why Harris probably shouldn’t sing it with kids.  (The verse about the guy’s skin being taken off and tanned might not even be one of the top reasons.)  Despite all of that, “Tie Me Kangaroo Down” has the type of charm that comes from not taking itself seriously at all.  This is a record that knows it is thoroughly stupid and invites us to laugh at it.  And the rancher may be a colonial enslaver and a weirdo, but at least he dies in the end.  It’s all part of the fun.

My rating:  6 / 10

“Still” by Bill Anderson (1963, #6)

One person’s view:  “It’s a mirthless, wince-inducing slog all-around, in my opinion the worst hit song of the entire year.” – Nic Renshaw @ Pop Goes the Year

The public’s view:  2.53 / 5.00

While I have some editorial discretion in deciding which songs to feature on this blog, my selections are guided by reviews and ratings that others have given.  When I saw that Bill Anderson’s “Still” was one of the most poorly regarded hit singles of 1963, and then listened to the record, I wasn’t thrilled with having to write about it.  This is an emotional song, one that probably means a lot to some people, and I felt bad about potentially exposing it to ridicule.  But then I listened to it again and focused on the lyrics, and realized that anyone choosing “Still” as a sentimental favorite is probably, at a minimum, missing the point.  Either that, or they need to seek professional help.

The best part of “Still” is the chorus, though even this is not exactly brimming with excitement.  The chorus is sung three times, and the two spoken word verses are placed in between like the filling of a double-decker sandwich.  It isn’t quite an edible sandwich, however.  It’s more like two sheets of Styrofoam on a slightly stale Big Mac bun.  Part of the problem is that Anderson is simply not very good as a spoken word performer.  Few people are truly skilled at this, to be fair, but even a so-so spoken section can work when it builds anticipation for some great vocals that follow.  In “Still”, any expectation of a glorious falsetto aria is destroyed when the second verse begins and Anderson is still speaking his lines rather than singing.  Come on, Bill, we’re paying you to use those pipes!

The lyrics are more worrisome than the delivery.  The singer is addressing a woman who broke his heart, and there is initially some ambiguity about how she left him.  My first guess was that this was another ‘60s death disc, and we were going to hear about his wife getting hit by a commuter train while picking up a ChapStick she spotted lying on the tracks.  It soon becomes clear, though, that the characters in this song managed to avoid the transportation hazards that brought an early demise to so many of their cohorts.  Their relationship did not end due to a tragic accident, but because the woman realized that life would be better without Mopey McMopeface tagging along.  It was a smart move for her, but the guy is incapable of processing the break-up in a healthy way.  Rather than gradually recovering from the loss, he admits that his abnormal obsession with his ex is actually getting worse with time.

I reviewed a similarly themed song on my #1 hits blog:  James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful”.  Like “Still”, Blunt’s ballad might superficially be perceived as a touching tribute to a woman, when in fact it’s a distressing psychological portrait of a man descending into self-harm.  I like this about “You’re Beautiful”, though I seem to be in the minority.  That song works for me because of Blunt’s bizarre voice and the lyrics that bounce from one extreme to another, but “Still” doesn’t have any of this manic-depressive energy.  Much of it doesn’t even have singing.  It is just depressing.

“Still” doesn’t insult the listener’s intelligence, so I won’t give it my lowest rating.  However, if I was forced to choose a somber top 10 hit to put on repeat during a rush hour commute, I would pick “Tell Laura I Love Her” over this.  I have a feeling that Laura will get over the death of her Tommy faster than the guy in “Still” recovers from being dumped.

My rating:  2 / 10

“Ahab, the Arab” by Ray Stevens (1962, #5)

One person’s view:  “Even my grandparents, who are Ray Stevens’ target audience, would think this is terrible.” – 1Chops @ Rate Your Music

The public’s view:  1.74 / 5.00

After listening to some of the novelty hits from the early 1960s, I’m convinced that very few Americans of that era ever traveled more than a hundred miles from home or met someone who spoke a different language.  Any foreigner who wore an unfamiliar head covering or who used spices in their food was viewed as an amusing oddity who belonged in a traveling carnival.  That’s the only way I can explain the public’s fascination with songs like “Speedy Gonzales” and “Ahab, the Arab”.  And another example is still to come.

We’re covering “Ahab” today, and I want to get the track’s positive features out of the way first.  It won’t take long.  Ray Stevens describes the characters in “Ahab, the Arab” vividly, based on his childhood memories of reading Arabian Nights.  He does a couple of OK sound effects.  And, as with “Speedy Gonzales”, there is nothing malicious about any of the ethnic generalizations.  One writer says that “Ahab” is “more ignorant than racist,” which is about the highest praise that any serious commentator or critic has given the tune.

Accuracy and consistency are not strong points of “Ahab”.  Ray tells us that the title character sneaks “silently through the night” on his camel to Fatima’s tent, yet we can hear a noisy clop-clop the whole time.  Clyde the Camel walking on sand sounds like Secretariat’s grandson trotting across my upstairs neighbor’s hardwood floor (which happens more frequently than I would prefer).  I guess Stevens didn’t know that camels have padding on their feet.  Then there’s the matter of Fatima wearing a bone through her pierced nose.  The lyrics tell us of her fondness for American culture, so why is she emulating a custom from the South Pacific?  I’m pretty sure she didn’t get this fashion idea from Jackie Kennedy.

I’ve already written about two Ray Stevens songs on my #1 hits blog.  Though I was kinder to them than most reviewers have been, I complained about the annoying laugh track in “The Streak”.  “Ahab” might benefit from a laugh track, however, because I have trouble finding the jokes.  I guess the big punch line is that Fatima likes Hershey bars and Mad Magazine and the Grand Ole Opry.  It’s an attempt to create humor from a surprising incongruity, and this can often be effective.  For example, it would be amusing if the baby in “Baby Sittin’ Boogie” suddenly started talking clearly and told Buzz Clifford to shut the fuck up.  Fatima’s incongruity is that she has abruptly transitioned from an unconvincing Arab stereotype to an unconvincing American stereotype.  It isn’t exactly a har-de-har-har moment of hilarity.  You know what would really be incongruous?  If Ray Stevens researched a topic before writing a song about it.

So the plot of “Ahab” isn’t funny, but at least there’s nothing else interesting about it either.  Ahab isn’t an underdog character, and we aren’t motivated to root for him.  He’s a wealthy sheik who wears jewelry that is literally worth as much as a house.  He escapes his precarious situation not through any skill or cunning, but because he owns the fastest (albeit loudest) transportation device in the region.  Essentially, this is just a story about a rich douchebag sleeping with another rich douchebag’s wife.  And it takes place in a foreign country where people are weird.  The end.

My rating:  1 / 10

“Speedy Gonzales” by Pat Boone (1962, #6)

One person’s view:  “Thankfully, this type of casual racism now looks horribly dated.” – Graham Fyfe @ Aphoristic Album Reviews

The public’s view:  3.02 / 5.00

Pat Boone is tired of taking everyone’s shit.  At least, that’s the message I got from the 2021 Fox News interview in which he responded to claims that the cartoon mouse Speedy Gonzales was a racist Latino stereotype.  Boone’s old hit record that sampled the character’s voice was now also under attack, and the entertainer wasn’t about to put up with it.  He pointed out that the resourceful rodent from Warner Bros. is beloved by people in many Spanish-speaking countries.  Cementing his defense, he said that Benjamin Netanyahu enjoys Boone’s song and affectionately refers to Pat as “Speedy” every time they see each other.

I have a few follow-up questions that Fox News neglected to ask.  Why was the Prime Minister of Israel having meetings with Pat Boone?  Was he trying to counter a possible alliance between Hezbollah and Bobby Vinton?  And why couldn’t the singer find a more appropriate person, perhaps someone who lives within 6,000 miles of the region, who could vouch for his good standing in Latin America?  Nonetheless, Boone was not wrong.  The criticism of his record is an example of politically correct silliness.  It’s easy to grab headlines by calling a song racist, but oftentimes the better word to use is “stupid”.

Boone’s “Speedy Gonzales” is about a hard-drinking Mexican man who coincidentally shares a moniker with a popular cartoon character.  It’s a solid concept accompanied by an acceptable melody, and it succeeds as a straight-ahead early ‘60s rock song.  It’s even a little edgy if you interpret Speedy’s nickname as an emasculating jibe at his lack of stamina in the bedroom.  I doubt that unclean thoughts like this were in Pat Boone’s head while he was making the record, but it’s nice that the lyrics can work on a couple of different levels.

Unfortunately, Speedy’s wife wanted to contribute her vocals to the mix.  This woman evidently loves to sing, even though she could lose a talent contest to a smoke alarm.  You want to know why Speedy won’t come home, lady?  It’s because he has ears.

The song ventures into full novelty territory when two sound bites of Mel Blanc’s Speedy Gonzales cartoon voice are added.  Now it is an interruptabeat, just like “Baby Sittin’ Boogie”.  Someone could probably build a pretty good comedy track of this type using Blanc’s voices, but in “Speedy Gonzales” there is no common theme holding everything together.  Boone is singing about a philandering sot and a screeching harpy of a wife, while Blanc is portraying the world’s fastest and cleverest mouse.  Cramming these characters into the same song, just because all of them are Mexican, is blatantly contrived.

That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s offensive.  The mouse is a stereotype, but his interjections about tortillas, chili peppers, and tequila are a positive stereotype because these products are a source of pride for Mexico.  Imagine if Pat Boone’s producer had worked on “The Night Chicago Died”, and had inserted snippets of a guy ad-libbing about deep-dish pizza and Polish sausage.  You wouldn’t say, “Wow, that song is racist toward Chicagoans!”  You’d say, “What the hell does this have to do with Al Capone’s gang and the shoot-out?”

I’m someone who appreciates a good novelty record.  I could expound for pages on the bounteous wonders of Weird Al’s catalog, and I might just do so someday if you’re not careful.  Pat Boone, however, is not Weird Al.  This song might have been the stand-out single of Boone’s career if he had not tried to make it funny.

My rating:  3 / 10