DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL
I like Sam Cooke. I’ve even been known to argue that it was Cooke, not Otis Redding who was the greatest male soul balladeer of the ’60s. (And that Redding has the greater reputation chiefly on the basis of writing Aretha’s greatest — and first — hit “Respect,” and having been at Monterey.
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DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL
Redemption In The Air
Donald Willson
by
I like Sam Cooke. I’ve even been known to argue that it was Cooke, not Otis Redding who was the greatest male soul balladeer of the ’60s. (And that Redding has the greater reputation chiefly on the basis of writing Aretha’s greatest — and first — hit “Respect,” and having been at Monterey. Anybody who wants to fight should write c/o this magazine.)
I do not like Cat Stevens. I have even been tempted to argue that it is he, not Harry Chapin, who best represents the tepid idiocy of our generation’s spineless rock set. “Another Saturday Night” proves both my points. It is a great song, abysmally rendered by this whining little piece of Greco-limey sapsuck. Enough, I adjure you, to make one seriously consider ripping the very speakers from one’s dash.
Lest this become nothing more than the usual tirade, however, we ought to remind ourselves that Billy Preston is still in the Top Ten, with the appropriately titled “Nothing From Nothing.” Which is probably what will come even from his vaunted appearance at the George Harrison laugh-a-rama which is taking its first faltering footsteps even as you scan this screed.
Thankfully, “Rockin’ Roll Baby” is back on the charts; or that is what I keep thinking. It always turns out to be “Then Came You,” which has a track so close to the Stylistics’ hit that Thom Bell ought to sue himself for plagiarism.
Also, Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back,” which hasn’t been on the Top 40 long enough, as I write, to permit me to quote its rather perfect message. Something to do with how E.J. isn’t so hot, maybe, but look at the rest of this bullshft. Indeed. For proof, consider, “You’re Havin’ My Baby” with Paul Anka s catchy anti-abortion refrain — if you don’t think he put the politics in there, listen more closely — or Lynyrd Skynrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” which is only enough to convince that L. Bangs was correct in suggesting that these hillbilly dudes don’t know where to put their willies to get ’em wet.
But I am non-plussed. Perhaps I can no longer trust even my own impeccably wrought taste. I am not falling asleep each time Roberta Flack’s latest biggie come across the ether. In fact, “Feel Like Makin’ Love” even seems sexy, for some befuddled reason. Only something as outre as Joni Mitchell’s latest gaffe, “Free Man In Paris,” can Farmer Clapton: slow hand, quick mind, off-key.
snap me back to my senses. As my good friend, H. Armetta, of Cambridge, Mass, is wont to put it: “Nothing’s no good no more.” Ever a canny fellow, he. Unlike Joni, who, L-am beginning to think, is only ever pedestrian. Not to say, boring.
As is Eric Clapton, he of the slow hand and quick mind. Clapton’s only the latest — and not even that, with the release of Harry Nilsson’s “Many Rivers to Cross” — to notice that, though reggae is not itself a strong pop movement, variations (no matter how unmelodious) upon its essence, or its songs, are viable propositions. If Clapton had managed to come within a few notes of being in the right key, Bob Marley’s greatest song would be a pleasurable addition to the Top Ten. As it is...
As it is, I listen to a weird, non-radio record called “Hey Joe (Version)” which was done, by critical colleagues Patti Smith (under whose name it was released) and Lenny Kaye, (who produced) quite independent of any hope of the charts. Many are touting the B side but, ever-conservative as we are (“Piss Factory” — no commercial potential), we like the hit. “Hey Joe (Version)” is available from Wartoke Concern, Inc., 1545 Broadway, NY 10036. Send ’em two bucks; send more, maybe they’ll have ’em autograph it.
Patti’s version of “Hey Joe” carried the basic fantasy further than even Hendrix’ version. In her mind’s eye, Joe is seeking revenge because his (white) girlfriend has found delight in the .arms of a black man. Joe is portrayed as William Randolph Hearst III, naturally, and Patty plays the part of the Sabine wortian. (Patty Hearst we mean, not Patti Smith, who as far as we know strays not from the affections of the Blue Oyster Cult’s Alan Lanier.)
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So, you see, there is redemption, if not on the airwaves, at least in the air. The little ones with the big holes still have some life left. If I can be thankful that NY AM stations’ conservatism has spared mp, so far, Cheech y Chong’s “Earache My Eye,” should I not be absolutely ecstatic that a new John Lennon single has just been released?
If you’d heard a chump named Cousin Bruce (Morrow), who has replaced the redoubtable Wolfman Jack on WNBC, you would think not. This balding middle-aged spreading bellied punk is obsessive Beatlemaniac No. 1., which induces not only my usual gallons of pathos for such twerpism but also a faint-hearted desire to spread my gills and actually puke upon my hallowed transistors. NY radio is left with only one substantial personality — the crazed Don Imus of Rev. Millie Sol Hargis fame. About whom more next time.
Meantime, hang in there, and keep punching those buttons. Appearances to the contrary, something must eventually come along to make oldies radio obsolete. (Can’t imagine what it will be, or when.)
