Yes, I know I was going to write another SMIP, but what’s a Minister to do when he receives a birthday present like this?
SMIP
SMIP #3: Atmosphere by Joy Division
Synthesizer and peal of chimes
(4:01-4:03)
It is one of the spooky coincidences of iPod ownership that my iPod’s shuffle function should this morning have played me SMIP #3, the day on which Anton Corbijn’s movie biography of Ian Curtis, Control, is released. (Another was my previous iPod’s unnatural attachment to Suzanne Vega’s Luka, something I was delighted changed when Apple had to replace my unit under warranty when its hard drive failed. I absolutely refute any suggestion that I threw that iPod against a wall when Ms. Vega’s voice piped up once too often.)
Atmosphere – initially entitled Chance – is perhaps not the best track to play to oneself while driving up the A1(M) to a job you despise at 6.45am on a dark, misty and chilly autumn morning, but there you go. It’s either that or I take the backroads and pass a road sign for a place called Souldrop. One way or the other, it’s hard to get fired up for another ten hours in the office…
It is practically impossible to separate Joy Division’s music from Ian Curtis’s mental illness: it is too easy to read into every line that Curtis’s lyrics and their Voice Of Doom delivery were a prolonged cry for help that went unheeded. The typical images of Curtis – monochromal, swathed in industrial shadows, or sweating and maniacally wide-eyed, lost in his music, on stage – reinforce the impression of a soul far deeper and darker than his bandmates or friends ever seemed to notice.
Curtis’s Wikipedia entry has it that “Many of Curtis’ writings were filled with cavernous-deep imagery of emotional isolation, death, alienation and urban degeneration.” Atmosphere is no different:
“My illusion, worn like a mask of self-hate, confronts and then dies. Don’t walk away. People like you find it easy…” (1:49-2:39)
It’s another Curtis lyric about desolate isolation. When a 23-year-old father hangs himself, how can lyrics like this have been anything but a desperate plea?
Shortly before his own recent death, Tony Wilson told a BBC documentary about Factory Records that two weeks before Curtis’s suicide he asked Curtis’s mistress, Annik Honore, what she thought of the band’s just-completed second album, Closer:
“She goes, ‘I’m terrified.’ I said, ‘What are you terrified of?’ She replies, ‘Don’t you understand? He means it.’ And I go, ‘No, he doesn’t mean it – it’s art.’ And guess what, he fucking meant it.”
Even had Curtis’s life not ended as and when it did it would be difficult to imagine a band whose output – lyrical and musical – so comprehensively introduced its audience to life’s bleakest aspects and enraged alienation. My Chemical Romance don’t know they’re born.
For me, Atmosphere‘s appeal has remarkably little to do with Ian Curtis’s lyrics or his performance (which is nevertheless one of his best). This record’s chief appeal lies in its arrangement, production and, in particular, the shimmering keyboard flourishes (played by Bernard Sumner) that bookend each verse – “produced to sound like rays of light from the heavens, a beautiful contrast of light against the heavy rhythmic doom down below”, as allmusic.com’s Ned Raggett would have it.
The fondly shambolic presentation of Factory Records’ in-house producer, the late Martin Hannett, in Michael Winterbottom’s movie 24 Hour Party People and as the butt of countless documentarised anecdotes suggests just another producer in the “mad genius” vein of Phil Spector and Joe Meek. But, by Christ, he knew his way around a recording studio and a mixing desk. The bands may not always have liked Hannett’s finished product or the methods by which he achieved his recordings, but it is unthinkable now to imagine that he was anything less than a fifth, unofficial member of Joy Division, the midwife assisting the birth of Factory Records and a thousand legends and urban myths.
The surviving (rarely satisfactory) live recordings of Joy Division showcase aspects of the band that appear only infrequently in their studio work (thought both demonstrate that Morris merits serious consideration as one of the best drummers in rock and pop history – it’s perversely delicious that the song with which he is most associated, New Order’s Blue Monday, utilises a drum machine; how I would love to believe that the story in 24 Hour Party People of Hannett once making Morris play his drum kit on the studio roof was true), but Hannett’s studio work adds a dimension to the band’s songs that a more conventional producer would surely never have achieved.
Joy Division’s live sound depended largely on Sumner’s jagged guitar assault to create an industrial soundscape, augmented by Morris’s imperious timekeeping and crisp snare. Hannett’s studio recordings push Peter Hook’s bass and Morris’s drums more to the fore, bathing the latter in particular in reverb and echo. Sumner’s guitars were softened and quietened in the mix, complemented by his synthesiser work in a manner that, as a man with just the two arms, he obviously could not emulate on stage.
Atmosphere – recorded in October and November 1979, before the Closer sessions, but only released posthumously – represents, alongside Love Will Tear Us Apart, the first signs that Joy Division’s sound was evolving from its post-punk roots into (or at least making the occasional concession to) more mainstream rock.
Opening with Hook’s haunting bass line and Sumner’s layered synths, the record quickly combines Hook’s twists with ritualistic bursts from Morris’s drum kit (from 0:03), building to create an etheral aural canvas on which Curtis laid down an atypically controlled baritone performance (from 0:25). Sumner’s guitar is not even introduced until 3:21.
By the final, scintillating release of synthesizer and peal of chimes (4:01-4:03), those listeners to Atmosphere prepared to submit to its mesmerising meanderings should be crying, smiling or – best of all – both.
Drink, drugs and obesity did for Hannett, who suffered a fatal heart attack in 1991, aged 42. With the benefit of hindsight it is difficult to claim that he achieved anything of substance (pun intended) other than produce Joy Division’s studio work and New Order’s first album – but as Mr. Baby would have it: “Fuck it, that was a good life in the office.”
Hannett’s outstanding achievement, Atmosphere was voted by listeners to John Peel’s show as the best song of the millennium. There are higher accolades, but that’ll do.
Read a lovely anecdote about first discovering Atmosphere by blogger Lee Rourke on writer Laura Hird’s website.
This is Anton Corbijn’s 1988 video for Atmosphere:
SMIP #2: Have I The Right? by The Honeycombs
Grrrrr, come right back – I just can’t bear it.
I’ve got some love and I long to share it!
(0:32-0:40)
Some things just shouldn’t work – for example, the aerodynamics of a bumble bee; OJ Simpson’s defences; Patrick Kielty.
A record with slightly-out-of-tune guitars, vocals that sound like they were recorded with a bucket over the singer’s head and drums that somehow manage to be simultaneously both a yard in front of and a metre behind the beat recorded by a band whose members included a professional hairdresser and produced by an emotionally unstable megalomaniac should definitely be one such thing.
And yet, and yet… The sum is so extraordinarily greater than its parts – the very thing that makes pop music so wonderful – that we have our second Sublime Moment In Pop.
Have I The Right? was an August 1964 number one for The Honeycombs: beginning life as The Sheratons, the band comprised drummer Ann “Honey” Lantree, lead guitarist Martin Murray (day job – coiffeur), Honey’s older brother John on bass, Alan Ward on rhythm guitar and lead vocalist Dennis D’Ell (born Denis Dalziel).
They were spotted playing in a London pub by the pioneering and unconventional independent producer Joe Meek, who became their manager. At a later gig as part of their residency at the Mild May Tavern in the East End, they were seen by songwriting team Ken Howard and Alan Blaikley – the closest thing to Stock Aitken Waterman early 60s Britain could offer, the duo wrote hits for Lulu, Petula Clark, Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich and their song I’ve Lost You was recorded by someone called Elvis Presley – who sent them back off to Meek with their new song Have I The Right?
The words “troubled” and “genius” might have been struck for Joe Meek, whose life and death have been the source for at least three biographies, a stage play (now being turned into a movie) and a raft of documentaries. The Tornados were the first British band to top the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart in 1962 with the Meek produced and composed Telstar (a record inexplicably chosen by That Bloody Woman as one of her Desert Island Discs). Meek wrote or produced for artists as diverse as Lonnie Donegan, John Leyton (the number one Johnny Remember Me) and Humphrey Lyttelton while harbouring an unhealthy obsession with Buddy Holly and repressing a gay lifestyle that would not be decriminisalised until 1967 and accepted until much later.
Unable to read or write music, Meek nevertheless produced and/or wrote 40 UK chart hits between 1957 and 1964 creating a style as distinctive as Phil Spector’s Wall Of Sound but via the use of overdubbing, echo, reverb and intense compression rather than the cavalcade of musicians Spector favoured. Installing The Honeycombs into his three-floor flat/recording studio complex at 304 Holloway Road, Islington (above a “leather goods shop” – it must be a euphemism, though I’m not sure for what), Meek set about crafting what would transpire to be his last big hit.
The band’s USP was its female drummer, so Meek – naturally – set out about burying Honey’s drumming beneath a wall of percussion, handclaps and thumping “bass drums” that were actually a recording of the band members stamping their feet on the staircase of 304 Holloway Road while Meek stood at the same time with one foot in his bath and the other banging out the rhythm on his bathroom’s floorboards, microphone wires trailing the height of the flat to a two-track recorder in a top-floor bedroom. Compressing the “drums” track to within an inch of its life created a sound that remains unique and beguiling, despite not all band members being quite as adept at keeping steady time as the fragrant Ms. Lantree. How Honey felt about her drumming going virtually unheard on her band’s number one single is unrecorded.
D’Ell’s vocal technique reminds the listener of Gene Pitney on amphetamines, a double-tracked tremulous vibrato, straining – not always entirely successfully – for some of the chorus’s higher notes. Murray’s guitar (almost certainly manipulated electronically by Meek during the recording) forever teeters precariously on the brinks of flat and sharp. The keyboard runs in the verses (played by Ward) represent Meek’s only obvious nod towards his beloved electronica.
Individually, there remains relatively little to commend this recording – the final sound as the track fades out (2:54) is of fingers lifting from a fretboard – but its collective vibrancy stands as a headlong rush through the sort of lyric that simply couldn’t be written today. If read as a plain love song, long gone are the days when one might first stop to consider whether or not one’s advances might be welcomed; if read as the coded gay rights anthem many believe it to be, that fight has thankfully been won.
But that victory came too late for Meek. Having been charged with “importuning for immoral purposes” in 1963, Meek was subsequently blackmailed. In January 1967, police in Suffolk discovered a suitcase containing the mutilated body of Bernard Oliver, an alleged rent boy who was known to have associated with Meek.
His musical career all but over and his mind affected by drugs and the stress of the police investigation, on 3 February 1967 – eight years to the day after Buddy Holly died in a plane crash – Meek murdered his landlady Violet Shenton before turning the shotgun on himself.
Surfing the wave of the British Invasion that overwhelmed America in 1964, The Honeycombs took Have I The Right? to number five in the Billboard chart, lasted a couple more years and managed a handful of further, minor hits on both sides of the Atlantic before disbanding. Dennis D’Ell died in 2005 but a new version of The Honeycombs, led by Martin Murray as the only original member, still performs in cabaret. Have I The Right? and D’Ell’s growled introduction to its chorus resonates to this day.
Legend has it that Joe Meek turned down, at various times, the chance to produce Rod Stewart, David Bowie and The Beatles, but the list of those with whom he did work is almost as impressive – Tom Jones, Gene Vincent, Billy Fury, Frankie Vaughan (for whom he produced the legendary lesbian-chic chart-topper Green Door), Shirley Bassey, Tommy Steele… Today, a blue plaque rightly hangs on the wall of 304 Holloway Road and Meek is recognised for having developed recording techniques that would soon propel The Beach Boys and The Beatles to artistic heights that could not have been reached without his pioneering genius.
This footage of The Honeycombs miming to Have I The Right? is taken from the 1965 film Pop Gear:
Listen To What The Men Said
The Beatles were John Lennon’s band. He initially let others play with him and his mate Stu. There is no question that there would have been no Beatles without John, nor that he was the creative driving force in the band’s early years. But by 1966 McCartney had overtaken Lennon as the band’s creative force. John Lennon added very little of note to The Beatles after 1967, not least because he was – from that point – off his tits on smack.
There are, I respectfully contend, 43 indispensable Beatles tracks (and another 40 almost as good).
Of the 43 one (Twist And Shout) is a cover version; two were written by George Harrison (Here Comes The Sun and While My Guitar Gently Weeps); and seven were either agreed to be joint compositions (Two Of Us, A Day In The Life, Flying, I Want To Hold Your Hand, Eight Days A Week and Wait) or have their composition disputed (In My Life).
Lennon wrote 13 (You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away, Don’t Let Me Down, Across The Universe, Help!, Strawberry Fields Forever, Rain, Norwegian Wood, All You Need Is Love, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Girl, Dear Prudence, I’ll Be Back and Nowhere Man). They are all stunning. But just three – Don’t Let Me Down, Across The Universe and Dear Prudence - were composed after 1967.
That leaves McCartney responsible for 20 of what I consider the very best of The Beatles’ output – Blackbird, And I Love Her, Yesterday, Get Back, The Long And Winding Road, Let It Be, Hey Jude, Magical Mystery Tour, The Fool On The Hill, Here, There And Everywhere, For No One, Got To Get You Into My Life, She’s Leaving Home, We Can Work It Out, Paperback Writer, Eleanor Rigby, Penny Lane, Hello, Goodbye, Lady Madonna and Golden Slumbers-Carry That Weight-The End.
So if we simply weigh it on the scales according to the Minister’s iPod playlists, McCartney wins.
Far more importantly, however, McCartney singlehandedly turned the double bass/bass guitar from being little more than a rhythm keeper in three-chord rock and pop records into a melodic instrument in its own right (eg Come Together). He wrote music that will survive as long as anything produced by Bach, Mozart and Beethoven. My genuinely held belief is that, once Lennon and McCartney effectively stopped writing songs “eyeball to eyeball”, as Lennon once put it, McCartney’s Beatles output is superior.
Furthermore, while McCartney’s solo MOR tendencies have sometimes bordered on being crimes against humanity (eg Mull Of Kintyre, Ebony And Ivory and We All Fucking Stand Together), it is my genuinely held belief that McCartney’s solo output (whether as Wings or himself) rips the piss out of Lennon’s.
Band On The Run is a genuinely great album (even if Michael Parkinson does appear on its sleeve); Live And Let Die is the second best Bond theme ever (after Nobody Does It Better, of course); Jet, Another Day, Silly Love Songs, Every Night and My Brave Face are all fantastic singles; while Maybe I’m Amazed is fucking magnificent.
Oh, and Solo Paul is still shit hot live, whereas Solo John shunned live performance like, well, like he shunned his eldest son.
Meanwhile, Imagine‘s enduring popularity remains an inexplicable enigma (as well as being the most hypocritical creed ever published by someone who was not a full-time politician: it’s easy as piss to talk about having no possessions when a chauffeur ferries you around in a white Roller, you own half-a-dozen homes and you buy floor-length fur coats to keep the missus warm). Double Fantasy was being deservedly ridiculed until Mark Chapman’s intervention and would otherwise have remained a joke to this day, containing as it does a succession of over-produced MOR drivel more saccharine than anything McCartney ever committed to tape.
Essentially, John Lennon Solo was a series of pub-standard cover versions, songs he couldn’t finish without someone to kick his backside, and the odd primal scream. Love, Jealous Guy and Watching The Wheels represent three-quarters of Lennon’s entire listenable solo output: the final part of the quartet, Instant Karma!, however, is a SMIP from start to finish and will be lauded as such in due course. (I’d find Phil Spector not guilty just for producing that, Be My Baby, River Deep, Mountain High and You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’: we all make the odd mistake, after all…)
The basis of Lennon’s appeal is the opposite of the Stones’. Lennon is canonized because he – entirely pointlessly – died young and those left behind have cultivated his ridiculous Working Class Hero legacy. The Stones get the treatment for precisely the opposite reason, despite the fact that their useful creative life ended at about the same time Lennon’s went down the hreoin swanee and they are now nothing more than a performing freak show for Baby Boomers who are desperate to remember the days before they became senior partners in accountancy and law firms.
McCartney gets the critical bum’s rush for simply growing old and because his creative fire no longer burns quite as bright or hot as it once did. Mind you, his current album contains some of the best writing of his career.
I’ll back two dozen of Lennon’s compositions to the hilt as representing some of the unsurpassable cream of pop music – but don’t ever again seek to claim I favour him over McCartney, Mr. Baby. Or I’ll have you.
10 Things I Hate About You, Mick and Keith
Point number one – the Rolling Stones made a handful of excellent records between 1965 and 1968. Gimme Shelter is absolutely brilliant while Satisfaction, Paint It, Black, Ruby Tuesday, She’s A Rainbow, You Can’t Always Get What You Want and Sympathy For The Devil are all great (or at least have some great parts – there are only so many “whoo-whoo!”s I can take in one record). But I’m afraid there isn’t a single moment in any of them that makes me catch my breath when I hear it.
Point number two – the Rolling Stones have not released any record of consequence IN MY LIFETIME and I turn 36 in a fortnight. (The same can, of course, be said of The Beatles – though they do have the partial excuse in that they split up in 1970.) The Stones lost almost all relevance when Brian Jones left the band and their last vestiges of credibility when Mick Taylor did one. As early as March 1971 they were reliant on “daring” lyrics (eg Brown Sugar) and “risqué” record sleeves (eg Sticky Fingers) to make an impact. Despite the fact that you can now chart if your blood relatives and eight 12-year-olds buy your record, the Rolling Stones have not made the UK Top Ten since August 1981 and did so only seven times in the decade before that.
Point number three – had the Rolling Stones split up in 1973, they would be remembered now no more fondly than the likes of The Kinks or The Faces – ie as a highly influential band, loved by many and who made some great records but who are at least a rung or two below Elvis Presley (the 1955-1958 and 1968-1969 versions) and The Beatles. The fact that the Rolling Stones are revered and exalted as much as they are today is because – like Rod Stewart, The Who, Elton John and so many others of that generation – they have become an irrelevant self-parody: the public won’t have been sated by the Stones unless and until one of them dies on stage, preferably on live national television. They have attained National Treasure status simply because they drank, smoked and took drugs and are still alive.
Point number four – the Rolling Stones would not even have had a career were it not for the fact that The Beatles threw them a crumb in the shape of I Wanna Be Your Man; they remained Beatles acolytes and hangers-on until The Beatles split up. Should the supposedly greatest, rawkin’, rollin’, hard-drinkin’, hard-smokin’, R&B band in the world have been dressed in smocks and singing back up on All You Need Is Love?
Point number five – anybody who has managed to sit through Jean-Luc Godard’s 1968 film of the band in the studio, Sympathy For The Devil, without slitting their wrists and/or kicking in the television knows just what a bunch of insufferable cunts the Rolling Stones are.
Point number six – the Rolling Stones are demonstrably NOT the brilliant live act their hype machine would have us believe. They may have been when they were younger (The Stones In The Park and Get Yer Ya-Yas Out! suggest they were pretty damn good) but anybody who has seen or heard anything from their last five tours will confirm that it’s actually become rather embarrassing (eg the Stripped, No Security, Four Flicks and The Biggest Bang albums and DVDs – sit through them if you dare). When Bill Wyman is proved right, something has gone spectacularly wrong.
Point number seven – all of the above might have been fun in a cheesy kind of way, if only Mick or Keith had ever displayed any discernible sense of humour. (The only humour I’ve seen extracted from this 30+ year farce has been at the expense of the mugs who keep ponying up their hard-earned for Stones “product”.)
Point number eight – when I said they were “highly influential” I mean they’re directly responsible for The Black Crowes, Guns ‘N’ Roses and, er, Primal Scream. So they’re not highly influential at all, when I think about it again.
Point number nine – read points one to eight again.
Point number ten – the only remotely cool Stone is Charlie. And he’s a fucking drummer.
As for my supposed love of John Lennon, Mr. Baby, I shall rip you a new one later.
SMIP, Crackle and Pop
A framework for SMIPs is emerging, much as used to be the case with Tory leaders.
First, I was going to say only one SMIP per artist. Then I realised that I would be excluding everything The Beatles ever recorded apart from the first of their SMIPs my iPod’s shuffle function happened to regurgitate. But, insofar as is possible when a writer is reliant on his own record collection, I’ll be trying to steer as catholic a SMIP ship as possible.
Next, I thought a SMIP should always have to have been released as a single – the single, after all, being the natural format for the perfect three-minute pop song. But then I realised that would exclude – ahem – Twist & Shout by The Beatles, Yesterday by The Beatles (the 1976 release doesn’t count), A Day In The Life by The Beatles, Girl by The Beatles, You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away by The Beatles, In My Life by The Beatles, Here, There And Everywhere by The Beatles, And Your Bird Can Sing by The Beatles, Norwegian Wood by The Beatles, Got To Get You Into My Life by The Beatles, She’s Leaving Home by The Beatles, While My Guitar Gently Weeps by The Beatles, Here Comes The Sun by The Beatles, Two Of Us by The Beatles, Across The Universe by The Beatles and – most importantly – Golden Slumbers-Carry That Weight-The End by, er, The Beatles. It would also exclude I Am The Resurrection by The Stone Roses, a version of which WAS released as a single, albeit such an execrable, SMIP-free version that it remains the one record in which I remain in favour of mass burning. Where would such a rule leave Rain by The Beatles – The Best B-Side In The World… Ever! (TM)? Or Jeff Buckley’s Forget Her - The Best Track Ever Left Off A Debut Album In The World… Ever!(TM)? You see my dilemma. So I scrapped the singles-only rule. But it’s definitely a moral bonus if the SMIP appears on a single. Unless it’s a Beatles SMIP, in which case it morally outpoints everything else, anyway.
Then I realised I had to impose a One SMIP Per Song rule, otherwise I would spend the rest of my existence dissecting, bar by bar, the 304 seconds of A Day In The Life. This rule also has the effect of meaning I am almost certain never to write about A Day In The Life for fear that the minute I press ‘Publish’ on any such post will be the minute I realise that I should actually have written about another of the (roughly) 8,307 SMIPs in that recording.
Then – and this almost goes without saying – the No Rolling Stones Rule had to be invoked. Natch.
Finally, I’ve been wondering whether a SMIP could be music alone, lyrics alone or had to be a combination of both. I’ve still not reached a definitive conclusion but given that SMIP #1 was based around the refrain “Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba”, it seems fair to say that any requirement for lyrical ingenuity has to be left by the kerbside.
So I’m hoping SMIP #2 will emerge, blinking into the daylight, in the next couple of days.
In the meantime, apparently there’s going to be a General Election. Does ANYBODY want it? Does ANYBODY (Gordon Broon aside) even care? If there is a case for fixed term parliaments, its moment has arrived.
SMIP #1: Happy Together by The Turtles
Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba
Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba
(1:44-2:02)
Much as this lyric should perhaps more rightly have formed part of the Cypriot Eurovision Song Contest entry for 1958, this 18-second-long joyous invocation of the unbridled joy of head-over-heels-in-love-ness provides the first of our Sublime Moments In Pop.
Co-written by songwriting team Garry Bonner and Alan Gordon, Happy Together was turned down by various bands and singers before The Turtles started playing it as part of their live set. Arranged by bassist Chip Douglas, the 1967 studio recording builds from a gentle, almost apologetic, opening guitar riff (0:00-0:07) to tell the age-old story of unrequited yearning.
Should our protagonist pick up the phone and call the girl he loves? “If I should call you up, invest a dime,” accompanied by a low-in-the-mix piano (the only solo piano in the song, a lovely touch) tinkling to mimic the sound of a phone ringing (0:27-0:28).
The familiar chorus – “I can’t see me loving nobody but you for all my life/ When you’re with me, baby, the skies will be blue for all my life!” – is an overblown cacophony of trumpets, trombones, tubas, percussion and layer upon layer of vocals that arguably captures the giddy exuberance of youthful love better than any other pop record.
The arrangement and production of this record is so perfect that, in the second repeat of the verse, there’s even an oboe weaving a sublime pattern (1:28-1:44) beneath the vocals before the crescendo into the irresistible confection of the ba-ba-ba rendition of the chorus that makes this record one of the few genuine contenders for The Perfect Three-Minute Pop Song (2 minutes 52 seconds from start to finish).
The pay-off (too often dismissed as jokey frippery) – “How is the weather?” (2:21-2:22) – is actually our hero bottling the task at hand, admitting that even if he does invest his dime he won’t be able to tell his girl how he feels. Keith West had his Excerpt From A Teenage Opera; Happy Together is the full Monty.
It would be wrong to dismiss the song as just another piece of the bubblegum fluff in the belly-button of the Summer of Love, for this is one of the songs that pre-dated and influenced the Summer of ’67: the single was recorded in March 1967, just a couple of weeks after the release of Strawberry Fields Forever/Penny Lane heralded the new vibe – and released a month later. Perhaps it’s not cutting edge, but neither is it Scott Mackenzie’s San Francisco.
It is only fitting that it should take something special to knock Penny Lane from the top of the Billboard Hot 100: Happy Together was just that special (and was itself replaced after three weeks by something stupid called Somethin’ Stupid). While the band produced a handful of hits Stateside either side of Happy Together, nothing would – or could – ever top this, their crowning achievement.
True to form, the British record-buying public proved their cluelessness by helping the single limp to only number 12 for two weeks while the chronic Somethin’ Stupid and crime against humanity Puppet On A String sat at number one; The Turtles’ follow-up hits She’d Rather Be With Me and Elenore both made the British Top 10.
Within three years of releasing Happy Together, The Turtles were no more but the band’s finest moment took on a life of its own and has been used in countless movies, TV programmes and – spit – advertisements for products as diverse as cars, chewing gum and electricity, in the process deservedly becoming the 44th most broadcast record of the 20th century in the USA.
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