You just never know what you’ll find on YouTube. Here’s a lengthy interview of Peter Noone, ostensibly to talk about his recording of  “There’s a Kind of Hush,” for Mark Steyn’s “Song of the Week” feature. But it covers his early days as the teenage leader of a band in an exciting time and place–you know where and when (okay, for you youngsters, mid-60s Britain).

I learned a few things I didn’t know, including that the distinctive “shhhhh” was not only not a sound effect but Noone’s idea. One of many no doubt, which, as a nonwriter, he never got credit for, even though it’s those precise touches that often make the difference between a stiff and a smash.  He also does a nice Englebert Humperdinck imitation.

But my favorite moment, of course, was this, about his older sister’s record collection:

“My sister couldn’t say a word to anybody. But it was all said by Lesley Gore or people on records and I bought into that.”

BTW, this is me from 5/1/15:

I picked up the Hermits’ set in lieu of some generic greatest hits package or waiting until I could afford the complete Mickie Most sessions, which I wasn’t even sure I needed. I’m still not sure I need it, but the 66-track Bear Family treatment certainly has its deep pleasures, including a new shine on the few tracks I already considered essential (“I’m Into Something Good,” “A Must To Avoid,” “No Milk Today”) and a new level of intimacy made available by the gods of re-mastering that allowed me to hear qualities I’d missed in say, “End of the World,” and “This Door Swings Both Ways” that strengthened my abiding sense that Peter Noone was really a girl-group singer in disguise and gave me an entirely new sneaking suspicion that he might have been a first-rate one.

Just sayin’.

“INTO ALL THE WORLD” (Edwin Hawkins, R.I.P.)

The story behind gospel choir leader Edwin Hawkins’ big hit “Oh, Happy Day” is one of the great American tall tales that just happens to be true and exemplifies the freewheeling spirit that defined record-making in the rock and roll era. I could never tell the tale as well as Mark Steyn does so I’ll just link to his piece.

And to the record, of course….

…which was one of the last examples of the New Testament trying to breathe life into the Pop Charts before a different sort of tide washed everything away.

Except the next world, of course, where Brother Edwin now resides.

Better then.


Goodness. The off-hand points I made in the immediate wake of the Harvey Weinstein mess/scandal/implosion/pity party are still turning up as freshly switched-on-light-bulb thought balloons over the heads of various and sundry Good Thinkers:

Here’s the New York Times, today, finally catching up

I didn’t mention Annabella Sciorra in my original piece because she hadn’t yet told her story. I did say “and that’s only the ones we know about.” I don’t doubt there are quite a few more, including some we will never know about. But I’ll just add that the Times is not only trailing me by nearly two months (understandable…perfectly understandable). They’re also trailing Dana Stevens and Mark Steyn by a month-and-a-half.

For that, there can be no excuse. Know your George Clinton folks….It ain’t illegal yet.


DON’T WORRY FOLKS, IF YOU WANT THE SCOOP…(Segue of the Day: 10/16/17)

….Just check in here first.

Last week (10/11/17) I wrote about the psychic damage Harvey Weinstein, as the man who, for two decades plus, controlled access to more plum “prestige” parts than any other ten producers combined, had likely done to a generation of first-rank Hollywood actresses.

For those who understandably don’t want to plow through the whole thing again, here’s the salient passage (The Round Place in the Middle: 11/11/17):

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

This week, the idea has taken hold across the big-name spectrum.

Here’s Dana Stevens, checking in from the left (Slate: 10/13/17):


This week marks the sixtieth anniversary of Bill Haley and the Comets’ recording “Rock Around the Clock.” It took a year or so and a lot of twists and turns for the record to reach #1 in Billboard and serve as the more or less “official” announcement of the revolution’s arrival to mainstream America. In honor thereof, Mark Steyn, a conservative columnist who usually stays as far away from rock ‘n’ roll as he can, has designated it as his “Song of the Week” and written a fantastic essay on the song’s (and the record’s) origin which can be linked here.




Or…a reminder that it isn’t only Elvis that people say stupid stuff about:

“Bayles is a child of the sixties, so it’s a pleasant surprise to find that she rightly identifies as Bob Dylan’s principal defects his ‘deliberate obscurity, self-indulgence, pretentiousness, and (most damning) indifference to the aural texture–the music–of words.’ He might be a great prophet, he might be America’s true political opposition, he might be a handsomely bound Ivy League-approved poet, he might even have ‘the rude beauty of a Southern field hand musing in melody on his porch’ (Robert Shelton in the New York Times), but he is not, on the whole, any sort of songwriter.”

Mark Steyn (The New Criterion, June 1994, reviewing Martha Bayles’ Hole in Our Soul: The Loss of Beauty and Meaning in American Popular Music)

The review–a reminder that culture wars are fought out in all kinds of ways and one price of freedom is that even the worst ideas are never truly defeated–can be found here, in case anyone would like the full context of the quote.

This is the first post in a series dissecting the means and methods by which professional critics dissemble (sometimes in the service of masters, though, distressingly, it is usually impossible–as here–to tell the cynics from the pie-eyed believers).

Note the device being deployed. Steyn pulls a quote from Robert Shelton that is so mind-numbing it’s reasonable to assume that even claiming Bob Dylan is not “any sort of songwriter.” will actually sound rational and insicive by comparison.

I believe the thinking is supposed to run along the lines of: If the person you want to attack is supported by anyone capable of Shelton’s drivel, then that’s sufficient proof of your attack’s moral and intellectual worth.

Or something like that.

Half-baked tautology then, with a reverse underhanded sideways spin designed to make the attendant sledgehammer irony somehow magically resemble a scalpel.

Steyn splits his professional time between musical and political propaganda (conservative-who-does-not-conserve in his case, though it works pretty much the same from the other side where the liberal-who-does-not-liberate runs free).

He’s made a nice living at both for decades.

In other words, he’s good at it–or, rather, he’s at the very high end of a particular human pursuit from which no good can come.

So he’s an exemplar of what we can expect.

But what should we expect?

Perhaps adherence to the FIRST MAXIM:

“Just because there’s at least one woozy mooncalf somewhere who supports a proposition (in this case, the idea that Bob Dylan is “some sort of songwriter”) does not mean the proposition itself is invalid.”

Incidentally, I’m in the camp that thinks any one of Bob Dylan’s fifty or so best songs is worth the entire Great American Songbook. (And not only am I a very long way from being a Dylan cultist, my favorite five minutes of film footage in the excruciatingly brief history of the civilized world consists entirely of Ginger Rogers doing “The Yam,” in Carefree, words and music courtesy of one Irving Berlin. Disconcerting as all that might be, it does allow me the hard-won confidence to insist that if Ginger can’t change the camp I’m in, it simply can’t be done). But whatever side I take in this particular debate, it somehow would never occur to me to offer up–as a scorched-earth defense of rock and roll perhaps–the idea that Cole Porter (or Irving Berlin) was not actually a songwriter or even that he was not actually a great songwriter.

I don’t think this makes me a profound moralist or anything. I also don’t think it makes me any superior judge of music.

I only think it makes me sound….not stupid.

Or at least not like I’m getting paid to teach people not to think.

Not much to brag about maybe. But, hey, it’s a mean old world. I have to take my victories where I can find them.

Not sounding stupid. Not getting paid.

There are worse ways to be.