I Don’t Know What You Got (But It’s Got Me) Little Richard
Label: Vee Jay
Released: 1965
In October of 1957, after having a religious epiphany while on tour in Australia, Little Richard famously threw his diamond ring into Sydney Harbor, quit Rock and Roll, began recording Gospel, and set about spreading the good word across the country. Four years later, he returned to secular recording after highly successful tours of England where both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones served as opening acts. A young Jimi Hendrix had joined Richard’s band by the time he recorded “I Don’t Know What You’ve Got (But Its Got Me)” for Vee Jay in 1965. A soulful departure from the straight ahead early rockers we know and love, “I Don’t Know” showcases some of Little Richards’ Gospel vocal chops and a sweet tremolo guitar part from Jimi.
Al Green. Aretha Franklin. Any number of the greatest singers in the history of soul have put their own distinctive spin on this heartbreaking civil rights anthem since Sam Cooke heard Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” as a clarion call to weigh in on the sorry state of race relations from a black man’s point of view. But no one’s ever done it with more soul than Otis Redding. One of three Cooke classics Redding cut for Otis Blue in tribute to his fallen hero, who was shot to death 11 days before his own recording hit the airwaves as “Change Gonna Come,” it proved the perfect vehicle for Redding’s aching vocal style. You’d almost swear that melancholy horn chart in the intro had brought him to tears as he trembles his way through the opening line, “I was born by a river, oh my.” And it only gets better from there until he’s pleading with his family to give him the help he needs with a desperate cry of “I said mother, I’m down on my knees.”
Long before Justin Bieber, Nick Jonas, and even before young Michael Jackson, little Stevie Wonder had all the girls combatively running after him, owning the term child idol. Despite being blind from birth, by age eleven Stevie caught the interest of record producer Berry Gordy Jr. and was signed to Motown Records at the age of eleven. A few years after landing his record deal, Stevie found early success with his song “Fingertips (Pt. 2),” released when he was thirteen years old. If that doesn’t say much, Wonder played a large role in bringing synthesizers (keyboards for everyone else) to the forefront of popular music as it was Wonder’s urging that led Raymond Kurzweil to create the first electronic synthesizers that reproduced the sounds of orchestral instruments. So enjoy this selection from one of the most influential artists ever; after all it’s just from the guy who has won 22 Grammy Awards (the most any male solo artist had ever) and received the Gershwin Award for Lifetime Achievement presented by president Obama.
Long before they’d gone Top 40 with the timeless psychedelic soul of “Time Has Come Today,” The Chambers Brothers chose a Jimmy Reed song, “Yes, Yes, Yes,” to kick off their first album, People Get Readyfor the Fabulous Chambers Brothers. Captured live at L.A.’s Ash Grove and the Unicorn in Boston, the album also featured Reed’s “You’ve Got Me Running,” but it’s pretty obvious why “Yes Yes Yes” was chosen as the opener, setting the tone with some serious blues harp and the sort of groove the British beat groups lived to borrow. It’s what people used to mean by swagger – not as primitive as Reed’s original, perhaps, and yet more bad-ass in its own way. Reed’s own version of the song, it should be noted, was “I’m Goin’ Upside Your Head,” but these guys toned the title down without changing the actual lyrics, warning baby, “If you don’t watch out, goin’ upside of your head.”
But first, a little hip history: Jamaican rocksteady, the short-lived transition twixt ska and reggae, might be the only musical genre birthed by weather–specifically, heat. As the tale is told, the rude boys who packed the ghettos of Trenchtown and Riverton City during the oppressive Kingston summer of 1966 deemed it too damn hot to skank full-throttle to the then-ranking ska rhythms; to keep a cool head, they shuffled half-speed. So, with his keen ear tuned to such clubland goings-on, Desmond Dekker, protege of legendary manager/producer Leslie Kong, decided he’d better get the rudies what they really want. During a decade-long hit-making career, Dekker, leading his harmony trio the Aces, not only produced 1967’s indelible rocksteady classic, “007 (Shanty Town)”; but also 1968’s monumental “Israelites,” reggae’s first international chart topper; plus several such tough and tender tunes as 1965’s “This Woman.” Driven by honking horn triplets, the Aces’ calls-and-responses and Dekker’s full-throated and suspiciously joyous clarion call, “This Woman” sends warning to watch your step around a certain Jezebel whom the singer seems to know perhaps a little too well.
Today’s holiday track comes from Allan Sherman, the man who brought us a number of comic novelties including the infamous “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah”. Sherman popularized the art form of taking a familiar song and spinning it into his own satirical masterpiece. “Christmas ‘65″ for instance takes a classic holiday standard and turns it on it’s head, giving us a delightfully jaded look at a Christmas filled with air pollution, high living costs and kids with too much hair.
We could dedicate hundreds of Damn Fine Days to the pop genius of Ellie Greenwich, her catalog is that vast and influential. Quitting her high school teaching gig in ’62, Greenwich claimed a role in the music industry that was highly unconventional for a woman of her time: “…most of the women were background singers, or they were lyricists,” she told writer Charlotte Greig. “There were very few women who played piano, wrote songs, and could go into a studio, work those controls, and produce a session.” Many of the tributes we’ve seen since her passing last week cite some of her well-known masterpieces—Brill Building-era collaborations with her then-husband Jeff Barry such as “Be My Baby,” “Leader Of The Pack,” and “Chapel Of Love.” Luckily, she gave us so much more to explore beyond the hits, including this epic from The Shangri-Las.
Teen-mag covers and Top-40 glory for hits like “Laugh, Laugh,” “Just A Little,” and “You Tell Me Why” faded like Frisco fog when that city’s pioneer folk-rockers issued this ultra-subtle single in late 1965. Was it too long or too slow for radio heads raised on brevity? Regardless, Sal Valentino’s aching vocal and the song’s deliberate, mood-darkening arrangement hints at the inspired melancholia of the band’s Triangle triumph, still two years distant. The cut opens with a stark 12-string not unlike the Stones’ “Play With Fire,” then drops into a variation of The Byrds’ chiming “Bells Of Rhymney” riff, but the Brummels manage more emotion than The Byrds could ever muster, more melody than the Stones dared flirt with. “Sad Little Girl” is so ’65 autumnal: The Beach Boys’ California girl walks the sand alone. The fun era has ended, and an unsettling future beckons.
The Wicked Pickett and the MG’s were truly a match made in soul heaven. They didn’t get to make too many records together in Memphis for Atlantic before Stax boss Jim Stewart pulled the plug, reluctant to squander his house band’s singular groovemaking talents on outsiders. But their limited output did encompass “In The Midnight Hour,” “634-5789,” and “Don’t Fight It,” the latter as swaggering an R&B groover as 1965 would spawn. How could anyone resist a strutting invitation to hit the dance floor from the Wicked One himself, with that modulating horn ensemble part midway through, the whole surging thing driven relentlessly by Al Jackson, Jr.’s thundercrack drums? Pickett had the enviable talent of being able to scream on key, with his gospel-fired pipes intimidating in their raw-edged, larynx-bursting intensity. No reason at all to fight it—just feel it!
