1969 Top 20 Singles

[11] Thunderclap Newman, ‘Something In The Air’

The hopeful strumming and coaxing bass that opens this one-off gem is as enticing to a Noughties two-year-old as it was to any counter-cultural firebrand at the close of those Swinging Sixties. Junior plays a relaxed air guitar in true appreciation and later waltzes with her dad to the triumphant lead into the final verse – after the piano goes all honky-tonk on us.

It’s a fantastic record that appears to harness real power. I’ve no idea how much it articulated a state of mind or movement in 1969, apart, perhaps, from vestiges of hope that the new kids could change the world. Thunderclap (né, erm, Andy) Newman sounds like the sort of chap who might roll up his sleeves and spark a revolution, and a singer called Speedy Keen can only add to the fervour.

In the end ‘Something In The Air’ has soundtracked the collective spirit of people chatting on mobile phones, which is a little banal even if it is the new limit of human endeavour. We have got to get it together – now.

[12] Stevie Wonder, ‘For Once In My Life’

There are few more ecstatic records than this in the pop canon, and few better singers to express it. Stevie’s beautiful improvisation around a melody can convey pretty much any emotion, but joy is his calling card. And why wouldn’t he be on top of the world? At last, he’s found The One, “someone warm like you”. From the anticipation-building intro, a close cousin of Sam & Dave’s ‘Soul Man’ jump-off, to the delirious harmonica solo and beyond, Stevie etches a template for lovestruck abandonment.

As far as the Wonder catalogue goes – off the top of my head – this is only trumped by ‘Sir Duke’ when it comes to communicating the delight of just being. That’s a bit of a cheat, of course, because there’s no risk with Basie, Miller and Satchmo. Right here, Stevie is laying his heart on the line.

Junior recognised the bliss and let herself go, wheeling around the kitchen with her mum and admiring her reflection in the oven door as she did so. Narcissus would wilt.

[13] Bob Dylan, ‘Lay Lady Lay’

Usually possessing the vocal warmth of a crow with a bandaged beak, Nashville Skyline found Dylan recovering from a shady motorcycle accident and experimenting with a new tone. He sounds like he’s gargling plums, but at least he’s trying to stick to the melody.

‘Lay Lady Lay’ is a sweaty plea for a bunk-up, but manages to be charming and delicate, with a slide guitar that sounds like the sun rising on lucky Bob and his worn-down conquest. The title line sounds like a yodel and is easily mimicked by Junior – she’s inhabiting the songs a little more these days rather than offering just the perfunctory shoe shuffle. She’ll be hissing ‘Positively 4th Street’ at her nursery mates before long.

[14] Elvis Presley, ‘Suspicious Minds’

Boil it all down and I’m ambivalent about Elvis. I shouldn’t be so bloody ungrateful, what with his sterling services to rock’n’roll, but the big-hitting and prolific late ‘50s/early ‘60s stuff just doesn’t float my boat, odd exception aside. Maybe I heard it all way too late, or perhaps it didn’t help that the only Elvis single my mother owned was ‘Wooden Heart’, or that too many teenage friends in the late ‘80s thought they were buying into some sort of authenticity – “this is real music” – when I wanted to convince them that Detroit techno was the one true path.
 
Ok, I love the more inventive moments like ‘His Latest Flame’, but have the most time for Comeback Elvis, when he was allowing a bit more slack in his music – and waistline: ‘In The Ghetto’, this, ‘Burning Love’ and – oh go on – ‘The Wonder Of You’. ‘Suspicious Minds’ is masterful Country & Western pop, with a drama that sweeps you up and a welcome false ending. Go on, Elvis, keep it going. I have some repressed memories of Richard Gere striding naked into a bathroom – in Breathless, I believe, not personal experience – but will strive to keep them quashed.
 
Junior’s prior knowledge of Elvis is gleaned from a day’s drive into the Omani interior, a terrifyingly limited selection of CDs in Grandad’s glove box. As ‘That’s Alright, Mama’ hoved to for the ninth time that December afternoon, she howled for a change, for anything, even that breathtakingly weak Snow Patrol album. Possibly. A few months later, ‘Suspicious Minds’ is accepted with grace and a highchair shuffle. Redemption for The King.

[15] Creedence Clearwater Revival, ‘Bad Moon Rising’

CCR had been knocking around for donkey’s years under various names, but only tasted real success with a change of moniker – “Creedence” apparently after a mucker of the band called Credence Nuball, “Clearwater” for topical environmental reasons, dude, and “Revival” for whatever it says on the tin. And “Revival” was right: John Fogerty and crew enjoyed huge sales for this and other infectious bluegrass swampy fare and never looked back… until acrimonious split and lawsuits, obviously.

‘Bad Moon Rising’ is a classic only-know-one-line tune, but everyone loves it. It’s a timeless music and, as I recall, a cornerstone of any self-respecting second-year student’s layabout playlist.

“Is this about the moon?” asked Junior, bless her. “Not quite,” I replied. “Fogerty claims it was written on the day Richard Nixon was elected to power in the States, and it reflects the sense of unease in the air and the portents of what was to follow.” Junior shot me a look that suggested she could get more sense out of Junior 2, asleep in her cradle upstairs, barely two weeks old.

[16] Fairport Convention, ‘Si Tu Dois Partir’

Aged 15 and in the throes of a short-lived U2 obsession – The Joshua Tree was the best album ever for a summer at the very least, the musical equivalent of a pair of black jeans, a flat-top haircut and a misguided strut down the high street – I bought the freshly minted Island Story compilation, a bit of self-congratulation for 25 years of quirky eclecticism from the label that always insisted white men could dance to reggae. The U2 contribution was ‘With Or Without You’, which I had anyway, so Lord knows what I thought I was getting. An intro to more impossibly earnest chest-beaters with ringing guitars and unforgivable headgear? Turned out to be an intro to Jim Capaldi, Pete Wingfield, Bob & Earl and Fairport Convention. And I was grateful.

Like any kid who grew up in the 70s and 80s, I nurture a natural suspicion of folk music. Where are the synths, the make-up, the safety pins and the snarls? Get these guitar-fumbling drips away from me! My stance has softened now, but Fairport Convention – at least from a distance – threw another problem into the mix: Q Magazine and their bewildering worship of Richard Thompson. I’m sure he’s brilliant and everything (this is 15-year-old me speaking, but it might as well be me, here and now) but I haven’t heard anything, and besides – he has a tidy beard and astonishing taste in shirts. If I drop my guard now, I’ll be championing Little Village and The Robert Cray Band within minutes.

Chaos and joy define Fairport Convention’s French Cajun and French language version of Bob Dylan’s ‘If You Gotta Go, Go Now’. Sandy Denny’s woeful accent (worse than Jane Birkin’s in the serendipitously adjacent entry) and her “Come on, children, join in!” schoolmarm-ish tone could be a turn-off, but I prefer to get involved. Anyway, you can only love a song that makes a tumbling stack of chairs meld seamlessly into the percussion. Junior swanned around the kitchen and didn’t get involved herself until the last few bars, but I think we can put that down to reticence – she’s obviously tired of grown-up rock mags prostrating themselves in front of Thompson too.

Hey, maybe he really is great. 

[17] Jane Birkin & Serge Gainsbourg, ‘Je T’Aime…Moi Non Plus’

Perhaps not an ideal track to play to a two-year-old, but Junior appeared to be more embarrassed at me trying to whistle along to the organ than anything else. ‘Je T’Aime…’ isn’t brilliant, but it has a good groove and is, frankly, hilarious. What a lecherous old goat Serge was, and isn’t it splendid that this record is so tied up with its pastiches it’s become a parody of itself?

What more can we say? Some trivia: Fontana got cold feet in the less-permissive-than-reported late ‘60s and dropped the Birkin/Gainsbourg original, only to see it vault to the top of the charts on the minor Major Minor label; Birkin’s wispy voice lives on in daughter Charlotte Gainsbourg, who released a very fine solo album in 2006, aided and abetted by Jarvis Cocker and Air; Misty Oldland’s ‘A Fair Affair’ made, well, fair use of the rhythm track to shape a winning little number in 1994. It’s a gossamer-thin legacy, as quaint as the song seems now.

[18] Bobbie Gentry, ‘I’ll Never Fall In Love Again’

Country girl turned pop crooner, Gentry took this tidy, sweetly judged Bacharach and David song to the toppermost of the poppermost. It’s a lovely mix of playground truth – “What do you get when you kiss a guy? You get enough germs to catch pneumonia” – and genuine heartbreak – “broken up and battered that’s what you get, a heart that’s shattered” – delivered with chin-jutting defiance that never quite convinces. I don’t suppose it’s meant to.
 
The final, hopeful piano chords, mimed by Junior in the back of the car this morning, suggest tentative steps into something new.

[19] Dusty Springfield, ‘Am I The Same Girl?’

When Junior heard we were about to put a record on, she was expecting something a little more nursery rhyme than this. “My song! My song!” she yelled and fished Party Songs out of the rack. Dusty had no answer, and soon we were bopping away to ‘Old MacDonald’ instead.

It’s a shame, because ‘Am I The Same Girl?’ is bright and airy, despite the yearning of the lyrics – is he going to wise up and rekindle that flame? It sounds like he might. Dusty’s isn’t the only great version of this song; in fact, its register is possibly a little too high for her. It’s not even the only 1969 version, coming as it did hot on the heels of Barbara Acklin’s arguably superior original – but, come on, it’s Dusty. The song was covered again in 1992 by the almighty Swing Out Sister who, although largely faithful to the earlier efforts, added a splendid ad lib at the end – “Have you ever stopped and wondered what it is you’re searching for?” – and disgraced no one in the process. It’s that kind of record.

[20] The Beatles, ‘The Ballad Of John And Yoko’

“Beatles!” Junior exclaimed, as I introduced her to the sleeve. “I like Beatles.” She may have meant “beetles”, but managed some booty-swinging to the last verse, a small nod of appreciation for the rock’n’roll version. She spent the rest of the time squeezing between the sofas to fetch the baby doll, complaining about getting stuck. The band themselves were in a bit of a fix, although this sunny record has its head firmly in the sand.
 
The ditty itself – a tale of John Lennon and Yoko Ono hopping around the continent acting the halfwit – is a solipsistic frippery, but I’m soft on it. My warm feelings extend from its timing: April 1969, and The Beatles are limping to a conclusion, hamstrung by legal divisions and poisonous in-fighting. Yet, amid all this, the two most obviously at loggerheads are working hard together – Paul McCartney indulging Lennon, Lennon enlisting his help with the writing, and the pair of them playing every note of the song, nary another Beatle in sight. It feels like the last true collaboration, two against the world.