PAUL: TALL PAUL

Another rabbit warren of antique archaicism to fall down today, as we grasp at the few straws offered by Tin Pan Alley to the Pauls of this world. Johns, and Johnnys are, of course, two a penny, and even Williams get more action, if more frequently foreshortened to Billy. So, then, pop pickers, who remembers “Tall Paul”? Don’t worry, I don’t either, but it was 1959 when Annette Funicello took it to the Billboard chart, where it reached number 7. 

There’s a nice tale about the song, suggesting it was written for Paul Anka, not least as he and Funicello were briefly an item. Anka responded vigorously to deny this, citing he was not remotely tall, an inescapable truth. Funicello was an erstwhile Mousketeer for the Mickey Mouse club, long before, I should add, any more recent incumbent, and the song was written by the Sherman brothers, Robert B. and Richard M., who specialised in writing for Disney, and penned most of the soundtrack for Mary Poppins. The song? Well. It ain’t up to much, typical fare for the times, but it did provoke a response. 

The tradition of a song producing a response, unrelated, from another group or singer is long and celebrated. Possibly the best example would be the songs traded between the star crossed squeezes, Neil Sedaka and Carole King. “Oh, Carol” was a massive hit for the former, and “Oh Neil”, her reply, was not, perhaps explained by her, in the interim, having married Gerry Goffin. More recently there was the somewhat more nuanced bromance between Morrissey and Billy MacKenzie. The Smiths brought out “William, It Was Really Nothing”, the seemingly somewhat a little infatuated Associates singer, with the explosive H bomb of a voice, riposted with “Stephen, You’re Really Something.” Probably more a little bit of celebrity one-upmanship, it makes for a great tale, if largely and likely apocryphal. 

Anyway, “Tall Paul” too garnished a reply, from a songwriter, Ray Hildebrand, who elected to give it a duet status, enrolling the niece of his landlord, Jill Jackson, to help him sing it. Picked up by showbiz mogul and producer, Major Bill Smith, who, despite outranking Colonel Tom Parker, was in an entirely different league. He gave Ray and Jill the name Paul and Paula, and a hit was born, hitting the number 1 spot in 1962. I was confident that was that, but it appears they went on to have a career of sorts, with further hits and a few albums, ahead of Hildebrand quitting the glitz, returning to college and embracing the Church. A later “Dear Paula” did not chart. 

Coming soon, in a future theme entitled Bernard, will be more enticing tales of derring do, but, until then, grab ‘em while you can…… 

Tall Paul 

Hey Paula

JULY: JULY, JULY/The DECEMBERISTS

Can it really only be 16 years since the Decemberists first peered around the corner into existence? Strangely, and I speak as a fan, it seems so much longer. Not, it is true, to the taste of all, the vocals of bandleader Colin Meloy being possibly the main hurdle to mass approval, together with their unworldly appearance,  the senior common room at a Cahoots/The Band theme night, and their downright odd arrangements, a quirky mix of the archaic with the unexpected, conspire to a niche version of world famous. Which is just fine in my book. And 'July, July' is perhaps the standout track on debut LP 'Castaways and Cutouts'.

Colin Meloy reminds me of Richard Thompson in a strange way, a catalyst of tradition and electricity. But maybe not so strangely. (Yes, I am going to talk about Meloy mainly, rather than the band, regardless of how tremendous are his cohorts, instrumentally, and they are, without him as prime singer and songwriter, they are meaningless. His band and he calls the tunes.) Constantly ploughing his own singular furrow, undoubtedly indebted to the british folk revival of the 60s and 70s, yet ears attuned to influences elsewhere. He has produced a series of solo albums, EPs really, devoted to such disparate bedfellows as Shirley Collins, Sam Cooke, Morrissey and the Kinks. But are they so very different? In Meloy's hands, often just his guitar and marmite voice, sometimes with spectral backing vocals, the similarities become immense.

See what I mean? OK, so 'Summertime' is hardly unique to Cooke, but what a version this is, drawing into focus what a great song it is, a steamy Tennessee Williams 3 acts in a few simple verses. And so too the songs of Stephen M. and of Ray Davies, let alone the trad. arr. seamed by Collins. I have to question, mind, quite what Meloy now has to say about the increasingly bizarre rants of the erstwhile Smiths frontman, whose image he has allegedly inked on his skin.

The Decemberists, of course, plough similar, albeit augmented by the trappings of electric rock music, chucking in accordion and stand up bass where necessary, and now, in 2018, the introduction of synthesisers and similar new-fangled. And now, instead of ancient mariners, they sing about village idiots.

Having caught them live in Birmingham (UK!) on their 'King is Dead' tour, I found myself initially uplifted, ahead of finding their cerebrality perhaps fits better with the recorded than the live. And there is then a strange dichotomy between the earnest lyrical scene-setting and Meloy gradually morphing into a demented ringmaster, corralling the crowd into choral participation. (I should add I am the frowning geezer in the crowd who never sings along, when asked to, or claps or waves a lighter. I can't abide all that stuff.) However, when they recently revisited the canon of 60s/70s folk in the guise of 'Offa Rex', their collaboration with folkish gamine, Olivia Chaney, this I wanted to see, so wanted to see. Still do. Interestingly they are keeping mighty quiet as to who the support on their forthcoming UK tour might be, my hope and money on Chaney..........

A final thought, for those who have ploughed through the vids above, and can't quite get it. This helpful instruction manual might help.

Still with me? Probably the best place to buy.

LIGHT: THERE IS A LIGHT THAT WILL NEVER GO OUT/The Smiths

Trawling back thru' the archives of SMM,  I am struck by how little attention has been given to both the band and it's frontman, (Steven) Morrissey, wondering whether it's a brit thing, finding only this, but, nonetheless, I'm sure it is time to set that straight.

This song was first released on their 3rd record, "The Queen is Dead", in 1986, later becoming better known as a posthumous band release, as a single, in 1992, reaching 25 in the UK charts. I don't think it then bothered the US equivalent, but it is, with the passage of time, that both the song and the band have entered a greater consciousness, not least as the cult of Morrissey has been ascending. Indeed, as front men go, I have always seen somewhat of a Michael Stipe-like ambience to this truculent and unapologetic iconoclast, lead singer as totem, if you will.

Steven Morrisey has had a mutual love-hate relationship with the media almost since day one, simultaneously courting and rejecting exposure. His upbringing in Manchester to an emigre irish family and his first hand experience of teenage loneliness and depressive illness, with pop music being his only constant, delivered a keen lyrical attention to urban discontent and disillusion, illuminated by the flickering TV screen in the corner. Obsessed by music, he is documented as an avid devourer of and contributor to the music press of the day. Later, after a brief spell in various punk bands, he wrote several books about maintained passions, James Dean and the New York Dolls, both of whose current listed prices suggest a far greater demand now than when first published!

The Smiths, astonishingly, lasted only five years, 1982 - 87, and, following a boost from legendary DJ, (the late) John Peel, swiftly ascended the british musical meritocracy, becoming a regular on Top of the Pops, the weekly chart round-up programme, exciting and alienating viewers both by his affectations, bunches of gladioli and a (false) old-fashioned hearing aid being regular props. I confess I was an original nay-sayer, feeling the band were let down by this tone-deaf buffoon, hooting out tuneless songs of despair and denigration. But somewhere, around this song, it all fell into place. (OK, this was helped by a contemporaneous interview with guitarist, Johnny Marr, claiming their riffs were all based upon speeded up Fairport Convention songs. I cannot confirm any truth in that, but it was enough for me!) I was now a fan.

I remain one. OK, since then there has been the highs, the lows and the slightly lower-stills of Morriseys solo career; cancelled tours, health scares, litigation, always litigation, dropped by labels, inflammatory remarks offending all, if not now, then undeniably later, yet always, always bouncing back. Bigmouth indeed fights back, every time. Currently is is cresting yet another wave, another tour, another album. His 2013 autobiography , published in Penguin Modern Classics, no less, at his insistence, remains a best seller, and a rollicking read.  May he be definitely not be the first of the gang to die.

More music, to reflect that final statement, although that would finally put to bed any further discussions around the unlikely re-formation ever of his old band.........

What to buy? So much to choose, but you could do worse than this or this, but they will probably prove but starting points. Oh, and the book!