SPECIALS

SPECCIALS

by Mitchell S. Cohen

The Four Seasons� First Golden Era

Tempus fugit. Down at the recent GOP convention, actress Terry Moore announced to a group of Youths For Nixon that among many other acts, Frankie Valli and the 4 Seasons would be appearing at the evening�s Rock �n� Roll Revival Re-election Rally. �Who�, piped up one apple-cheeked YFN, �is Frankie Valli and The 4 Seasons?� Who indeed. Granted that this newly enfranchised Republican was a mere third grader when �Sherry� squealed to the top of the charts, somehow the word should have Filtered down to him. After all, they�ve sold tens of millions of records (mostly small ones with big holes) over the past decade, and have recently made two mandatory moves for the refurbishment of fading rock groups, namely a label change and the performing retirement of their resident song-writer �to concentrate on studio work�. Not that all this is likely to do much good. More than any of their contemporaries, the Seasons are a breathing, whining anachronism, as out of step as the President they support. Actually, even at their peak, their image and lyrical thematic preoccupation kept them curiously apart from the pop mainstream.

For one thing, they were neat. Not cheerfully, funfunfun neat like the Beach Boys (their closest, though opposite-coasted counterparts), but junior executive neat - suits, ties, shinypolished shoes and hair. No overt showmanship on stage. Once at the Paramount in N.Y. with the WMCA Good Guys, they preceded a James Brown soul �n� sweat exhibition with a fifteen minute hit runthrough that left every Brylcreamed hair in place. As Italian semi-greasers from Jersey, they might have been expected to deliver a bit of tight-fisted swagger, but all was kept firmly in tow, as inoffensive as Wheatena. Nonetheless, they made it, as �the only American group that can match the Beatles for success� (Battle of the Groups Magazine, 1964). The 4 Seasons inspired something in their fans unlike adoration, or even direct identification, something more like respect. And any group that could base a career on respect at the same time that the Stones were hitting below the belt is a bizarre phenomenon, to say the least.

Some pre-history: Frankie Valli, possessor of a castrati shriek the equal of Lou Christie�s, sang with a group called the 4 Lovers, with small success, in the late �50�s. Bob Gaudio was, along with A1 Kooper, a Royal Teen, and the perpetrator of a redundant ditty, �Short Shorts�, that sold a few million and landed them a bit in a Freedian rock film. No comparable hit came, and Gaudio linked up with Valli and a pair of Lovers to form the Seasons. Enter Bob Crewe. Crewe was, among other things, a rock crooner of little renown with a few appearances on Merv Griffin�s Saturday Prom under his belt, and a partner of Frank Slay in the music business in Philadelphia. Together they wrote �Silhouettes� and songs for Danny and the Juniors, to name but two of their accomplishments. Chucking this role for one as. the Season�s manager-producer-co-songwriter proved remarkably rewarding, establishing him as one of the richest men in the industry, owner of multiple record companies (DynoVoice, NewVoice), manager of the likes of Mitch Ryder and Tracey Dey & Gary Knight. But all that came later.

After a couple of flops, �Sherry� became an initial smash hit for the Seasons. It set a pattern, vocally, instrumentally and thematically, that was to carry the Seasons through many years, and allow them to be one of the scarce pre-Beatle artists to survive the British Blitz. Lyrically, the narrative of �Sherry� was a familiar one: boy wants girl to get out of her house and join him for a bash. But Valli�s hardly domineering falsetto, and his request that she ask her mama was not really the stuff of which teenage romances are made. The pair of singles following �Sherry� reinforce this oddity, and delve into the area of sexual identity that surrounds their career. The message of �Big Girls Don�t Cry� is that, in fact, they do, much to the delight of our insecure vocalist. �Walk Like A Man� is fatherly advice after a confrontation with a castrating female. Both songs, patronizing and guilt-ridden, were uncharacteristic of the masculine arrogance so integral to rock �n� roll. On the surface, these complaints seem the antithesis of all that is teenage. Whereas most teen raves flaunted rebellion, irresponsibility and adolescent angst, the Seasons took a highly defensive stance, with respect for tradition (social and sexual) and an inherent maturity that should have turned off their intended audience, especially when faced with the exuberant alternative of the Beatles.

A switch in labels from the now-defunct VeeJay to Philips in 1964 only broadened their popularity. Valli began recording as a solo artist for Smash (a situation similar to Buddy Holly�s with the Crickets and Coral/ Brunswick), and �Dawn� began a new string of hits, with a new emphasis on masochism and social position (together and separately), along with marital problems. �Dawn� and �Rag Doll� (the only single to jump from pick hit to number one in the space of a week in the history of WABC) comprised reversible tales of woe, the former in which Valli pleads with the girl to �go away� because of her poverty, the latter in which he expresses love for the girl despite her poverty. The deeper implications of this attitude are revealed in the final segment of this (non-consecutive) trilogy, �Big Man In Town�, a' song that directly equates sexual potency with economic solvency. In summary, it appears that a healthy relationship is wholly dependent on the male�s financial state.

None of this seriousness seemed to alienate them from the public. In 1966, they were still among the top 10 vocal groups of the year, according to Cash Box, on albums and singles (No. 3 in LP�s, under the Stones and Beatles). Forays into the realms of adultery (�Bye Bye Baby�), filial difficulties (�Let�s Hang On�) and self-sacrifice (�Opus 17� -their 8-1/2), obviously kept striking some responsive chord. As for the music itself, there was little to recommend it above the rest of the pack. Charlie Callieo fashioned arrangements rather in the neo-Spector mold, very percussive and strident, with little alteration from one hit to the next. From time to time, particularly when things began to go sour, there would be experimentation, as in �I�ve Got You Under My Skin� and �Tell It To The Rain�, but generally Crewe kept to the formula, and no one could blame him for wanting to stick to a proven thing: the �sound� of Frankie Valli (as it was identified on all the records), the interruptive bass voice that seemed a caricature of doo-wop harmony. Gaudio, who wrote the songs, usually in tandem with Crewe, had a deadly accurate ear for the catchy, repetitive phrase that was the staple of A.M. hitdom and a carry-over from his days as a Royal Teen (�Who wears short shorts? We wear short shorts!� ad infinitum). Only on albums did the approach alter in the slightent degree, like on the �Dawn� LP, an early r �n� r revival disc including �Earth Angel�, �You Send Me� and �16 Candles�; and on the �Born To Wonder� album, subtitled �tender and soulful balladsfolk-flavored�.

Romance, rather than rape, was what they represented to the bell-bottomed bubblies who plunked down their 79 cents at Spinning Disc. Valli and his cohorts were more the type of boys they confessed their love-problems to than the type that was the source of them. No doubt many of the topics the Seasons dealt with seemed rather remote, but reduced to a least common denominator they could be sympathized with. How many hours were there when Arlene and Debbie plunked their quarters into the jukebox at Hess Pool Hall and pressed J3, J2, J3. Silence I Golden. Rag Doll. Silence Is Golden. �Oh, how it hurts deep insiiide ...� �Such a pretty face should be -dressed in lace.� � . . . but my eyes still see.� Over and over. Meanwhile Jerry, all hair and false bravado, bent over the felt fable and I slammed my wrists against the Bally machine, stopping every few minutes to halt the girls� reverie by sneaking in my quarter and playing �Satisfaction� three times consecutively. Confusion ... in love, loyalties, everything. Yes, big girls do cry. Sometimes walking like a man is the only disguise. Not out-front enough to proclaim �I�m a boy and I�m a man. I�m eighteen and I like it�, Valli, Gaudio and Co. dwelt on the pain, .for what else is the tortured confession of �Working My Way Back To You�? How else to confront a rock group concerned with being a �Little Boy In Grown Up Clothes�, with the audacity to record �Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow�, a female pube classic. Few were the guys on my corner who didn�t consider them faggots despite their dago heritage.

And now - Bob Crewe, still boyish and freckled, churns out instrumental albums, and through Crewe Records treats the public to such luminaries as William �Oliver� Swafford and the short-lived, genuinely exciting Rational (Crewe�s contribution to the Detroit aura, through them and the Wheels, is considerable). Gaudio has seemingly recuperated from the �Watertown� disaster that he and Jake Holmes concocted for Frank Sinatra and is continuing as the Seasons� writer-producer. As for Valli and the boys - they show up at various garden parties, both political and non, and, along with fellow Jerseyite Lesley Gore, have joined the new California-centered Motown corporation, where they will spend the remainder of their days yfiSysf at peace. Sometimes it seems as if the sun ain �t gonna shine anymore. Nrf \r