DIG THIS WITH BILL MESNIK AND RICH BUCKLAND- THE SPLENDID BOHEMIANS Rich Buckland and Bill Mesnik

Like a cat with nine lives, Chip Taylor’s persona has embodied many iterations. Starting with his successful “songwriter for hire” status, penning golden hits like Wild Thing, and Angel of the Morning, up through his phoenix-like resurgence as an Americana elder statesman, the story of this man’s artistic survival, emerging as it did, out from the quicksand of addiction, stands as one of the Splendid Bohemian’s tales of celebration. So much so that it has to be told in two parts.

BROWSE THROUGH THE CATALOG OF CHIP'S RECORD LABEL "TRAIN WRECK RECORDS"  https://www.trainwreckrecords.com/
https://www.songhall.org/profile/chip_taylor

Inspired by a quote attributed to the eastern mystic Meyer Baba, Bobby McFerrin created this a cappella masterpiece. And, although Michael Musto of the Village Voice has proclaimed it the “worst song of all time”, and Blender Magazine snarked “it’s difficult to think of a song more likely to plunge you into suicidal despondency,” this irrepressible ditty stands as the cornerstone of a singular musical career, festooned with awards and encomiums, including a Grammy for Lifetime achievement in 2022. 


It’s not so much the possibly insipid - (depending on your level of cynicism) - lyrics, it’s the purity and perfection of Bobby’s voice alone, albeit overdubbed, that communicates its message of joy. The son of an opera singer and a voice teacher, Mr. McFerrin possesses a preternatural perfection of pitch and tone that has enabled him, among many other extraordinary feats, to trade horn parts with the Marsalis brothers, or deliver a flawless William Tell Overture solo.


As a philosopher and exponent of music’s healing potential for the human brain, Bobby continues to spread his message. Since 2021, he has conducted “Circlesongs” at Freight and Salvage in Berkeley, CA, where audience members are encouraged to improvise alongside the master - a unique fusion of jazz and therapy. 


Here’s an ironic side-note: George H.W. Bush used the song for his presidential campaign, and Bobby protested, saying he would not vote for him. Then, he stopped performing the song in protest. I guess he wasn’t too happy. 

Like a cat with nine lives, Chip Taylor’s persona has embodied many iterations. Starting with his successful “songwriter for hire” status, penning golden hits like Wild Thing, and Angel of the Morning, up through his phoenix-like resurgence as an Americana elder statesman, the story of this man’s artistic survival, emerging as it did, out from the quicksand of addiction, stands as one of the Splendid Bohemian’s tales of celebration. So much so that it has to be told in two parts. 


https://www.songhall.org/profile/chip_taylor

What was that Frankenstein music machine with all the dials, sliders, patch cords etc., that made other-worldly sounds that were supposed to resemble “real” instruments, like strings, horns and flutes, but didn’t? 
It was the mighty Moog, invented by Cornell doctoral student and Theremin salesman, Robert Moog. He hooked up with musician-educator Herb Deutsch, developed the voltage regulation for oscillators and modulators, and the thing caught on.
The first time most of us heard it was on Wendy Carlos’ SWITCHED ON BACH record, which, by aligning itself to one of the world’s most beloved composers, became a sensation in 1968, and was a defining feature of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange.  Not long after that it became an absolute must have for the Prog matadors like Keith Emerson of ELP.  The Beatles also used it extensively on Abby Road, etc. The list goes on and on. 
Speaking for myself, I’ve always found the Moog and the electronic sounds it made cold and clinical (though fascinating). However, on this record its positively cuddly, and it makes me smile when I recall that it was used by the Muppets for the Swedish Chef routine.  Composed by Gershon Kingsley, this hit version of Popcorn was recorded by Stan Free of Hot Butter, and its lighter than air. 

At the outset, let me apologize for liking this song. It was outre almost immediately after its release. At this point it is so retrograde that I think a person might be able to enjoy it once again for it’s ironic naïveté. But, I have always loved the way her voice swoops up on the name “Bobby”. It still brings chills. I was nine years old, and I wanted to be Bobby for my crush. It’s so interesting with the sober goggles of reflection to realize how programmed I was by popular culture to accept certain societal dogmas in terms of the relations between the sexes.  


Marcie Blane was only 16 when she recorded it, and it was her only chart hit. Born Marcia Blank in Brooklyn, NY in 1944, Marci was discovered by Marv Holzman, an A&R man for Seville records, off of a demo she had recorded as a favor for a songwriter friend. The company changed her name and gave her this song to record, which she did, and, then, she went off to be a counsellor at summer camp. When she returned, she was a star. 


But, the supernova of fame burned out quickly, and by ’65 it was all over - by her choice. She decided to go back to college and didn’t promote her records. The music business was too stressful for this simple girl, who just wanted to marry, teach, and raise a family - which is what she did.


An interesting side-note: On October 9, 2017, it was erroneously reported that a homeless Marcie Blane had died with out enough funds for a burial.  It turned out that it wasn’t her: it was a woman named Mildred Maxwell, who had told everyone for 30 years that she was Marcie Blane. I guess a lot of ladies just wanted to be “Bobby’s Girl”. 

With its distinctive 16-notes-to-the-bar bassline and unashamedly honky sax solo (played on two saxes at once),
 Ian Dury and the Blockheads’ signature hit was certainly one of the more idiosyncratic No 1s of the 1970s. The same could be said of their inimitable frontman, who exemplified the post-punk era’s particular ability to allow unlikely and extraordinary characters to infiltrate the mainstream.
Just three years prior to reaching the top spot in January 1979, the edgy, twitchy singer-narrator-wordsmith dubbed “the Count Dracula of vernacular” had been the thirtysomething, struggling frontman of Kilburn and the High Roads, a seemingly washed-up, chaotic, bedraggled bunch of misfits and miscreants. Left with a severely withered arm and leg following a childhood bout of polio, Dury had already overcome disability, taunts and school days he described as “heavy-duty sadism” and “unmitigated hell” to become an unconventional but riveting live performer.