Clothes in pop music, part 2, the Sixties.

Just over a year ago, inspired by Moira Redmond's Clothes in Books, I posted "Clothes in pop music, part 1, 1955-63". Since my last post went to 1963, why am I calling this one, which goes into 1972, "the Sixties"? I don't believe "the Sixties" as we Americans understand the term in either cultural or political senses coincides with the decade beginning 12:00 a.m 1960 and ending 11:59 p.m. 1969. Some people, I think, would begin the Sixties with the election of John F. Kennedy (November 8, 1960), others with his assassination (November 22, 1963). Some other arguable starting points are Dwight D. Eisenhower's valedictory "Military-Industrial Complex" speech (January 17, 1961), The passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (July 2, 1964) the Gulf of Tonkin incident (August 2, 1964), or--from a musical perspective--the first arrival of the Beatles in America (February 7, 1964). I've decided to go with the date of the assassination. While the election of JFK heralded a change, his assassination was an event that tore the fabric of the culture; one that, I think, would not be rivaled again until the Watergate scandal and resignation of Richard Nixon. As you can see above, several other transformative events came shortly afterward, in 1964.

I'm not sure where to mark the beginning of the Sixties from a fashion perspective. Certainly Jackie Kennedy had an influence on women's couture, one aspect of which is mentioned in one of the songs below. For me, the most noticeable change came in the later Sixties, in the aftermath of the British Invasion, when Mod fashion began to make inroads here. What I remember are bright floral and paisley prints, wider lapels on men's jackets, and wider ties. Thanks to the Beach Boys, there was also a surfing influence, with baggies, Henley collared shirts, and huarache sandals. 

The other question is: When did the Sixties end? My answer is August 9, 1974, the date Richard Nixon resigned. Others, perhaps less politically and more musically oriented than me (though I think of myself as very musically oriented) might argue for the time the Beatles broke up, an agonizing, slow motion affair that may best be dated to April of 1970, when Paul McCartney announced he was leaving. Coincidentally, it was in the spring of 1970 that I experienced what I consider my quintessential Sixties moment. I was walking across the Cambridge, Massachusetts common and encountered five or six girls, about eight or nine years old, playing ring-around-the-rosie. What they were singing, though, was "Christ, you know it ain't easy/ You know how hard it can be/ The way things are going/ They're gonna CRUCIFY [all fall down] me."

Anyway, on to the songs:

In 1964 Frankie Valli and the other Jersey Boys had a number one hit on the Billboard pop chart with "Rag Doll." According to the song's Wiki it was written by group member Bob Gaudio, who "was inspired by a dirty-faced girl who cleaned the windshield of his automobile for change." When Gaudio reached into his wallet for a dollar (a very generous tip in those days), he found he had nothing but twenties (evidently the singer-songwriter thing was working out well), and gave her one, to her amazement. "I'd change her sad rags into glad rags if I could" is for me one of the more memorable lines from the early, pre-British Invasion Sixties.


Also in 1964, bluesman Tommy Tucker released "Hi-Heel Sneakers," which he wrote under his birth name Robert Higginbotham, misspelled "Higgenbotham" on the record label. The song would be covered many times, including by the Beatles and the Stones. Yes, footwear counts.


"Baby's in Black" was recorded in 1964, but released in 1965 as part of the album Beatles for Sale, which was released in the U.S. as Beatles 65. I've long been unsure if the song was about a woman mourning a deceased lover, or dressing in black to signal to an ex that she's available again. It's the former.

  
As I recall, Jackie Kennedy popularized the pillbox hat. Bob Dylan had some fun with it in 1966, on this track from his album Blonde on Blonde.


1966 was a fertile year for songs about millinery and clothes. Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels had a major hit with the pedal-to-the-metal rocker "Devil with a Blue Dress On."


Footwear joins the fray in '66 with Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made For Walking." It was also a good year for tough woman songs (this and the one before).


Tough guy songs, too. According to the song's Wiki the Kinks' "Dedicated Follower of Fashion" was written by Ray Davies after he had gotten into a "terrible brawl" with a fashion designer (and his girlfriend!) following a discussion in which Davies derided the designer's obsession with style and in which

I was just saying you don't have to be anything; you decide what you want to be and you just walk down the street and if you're good the world will change as you walk past. I just wanted it to be the individual who created his own fashion.

A very, I would say, Sixties sort of statement.

 
Does eyewear count? I say, "Yes!" When I first heard "Judy in Disguise (with Glasses)" on Boston's WRKO in 1968, the DJ called the group "John Fred and his Louisiana Playboys." Jello Biafra covers the song on his recently released album of New Orleans R&B, Walk on Jindal's Splinters.


This achingly sweet, autobiographical song topped the country chart in 1971. According to the song's Wiki, Parton wrote it in 1969 while on tour, riding in Porter Wagoner's bus. Wagoner was host of a weekly TV country music show that was the launching pad for Parton's career. A college roommate told me he had gone to a Grand Old Opry road show in Orlando and heard the following during Bobby Bare's set:
BARE: Y'all watch Porter Wagoner?
AUDIENCE: [Lots of cheering, clapping and whistling.]
BARE: Yeah, I like him, too. But you know who his sponsor is?
AUDIENCE: [Lots of chuckling. Wagoner's sponsor was a patent laxative called Black Draught.]
BARE: Yeah, well, I think I could do something like that. It'd go like this: Folks, this is the Bobby Bare Show, brought to you by Ex-Lax. Now we're gonna have some good old country pickin' and singin' and some old-time fiddlin', but first a word from our sponsor. Folks, you ever have one of those nasty old coughs, the kind that just hangs on and hangs on? Next time you get one of those coughs, take Ex-Lax. It won't cure your cough, but it'll make you too SCARED to cough.
AUDIENCE: [Laughter and groans.]


I'll close with a song by the Hollies, made long after Graham Nash left the group to join CSN&Y. The singer is Allan Clarke; unlike other Hollies songs there are no backing vocals because Clarke intended it for a solo album. It charted at number two in the U.S. in September of 1972, shortly before Richard Nixon was elected to his second term. This was followed by the revelation of the Watergate break-in and by the ensuing efforts to cover it up that would lead to Nixon's resignation two years later.

In my previous post I promised that my next one would cover the time from 1963 to the present. I'll confess to having been unable to think of any pop songs after 1972 that are about or refer strongly to clothes. I suspect that this is because I haven't followed "pop" as much as I used to, and "pop" has fissioned into so many branches--disco, metal, punk, rap, reggae, indie, etc.--all of which I've followed to some extent, but none as thoroughly as the pre-seventies "top forty." If anyone can think of any songs from after 1972, or any from the period (1964-1972) covered in this post, that should be noted, please let me know.

Clothes in pop music, part 1, 1955-63.

My friend Moira Redmond has a blog called Clothes in Books. When she started it, I reminded her that Ayn Rand heroines favored high waisted gowns in the 'Empire' style, because she had, during her term as Fray Editor, remarked that any post mentioning Ms. Rand was likely to attract lots of comments.

Thinking about clothes in books led to my remembering the spate of pop songs about clothes, mostly "novelty" songs but a few straight-ahead rockers and sock hop squeeze 'n' shuffles, that crowded the airwaves during the late 1950s and early '60s. One of the most memorable of these was Marty Robbins' (photo above) 1957 ballad "A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation."


The clip above is of a 1981 live performance by Robbins, made just a year before the singer's death.

 In 1956, Carl Perkins recorded "Put Your Cat Clothes On," though the record was not released until 1970. Perkins refers to "Blue Suede Shoes" in the lyrics, a nod to another song he wrote in 1955 and recorded in January of '56.

1957 was a big year for songs about clothes. A New Jersey group called the Royal Teens had a hit with "Short Shorts." The piano player is Bob Gaudio, who would later join Frankie Valli in the Four Seasons and write several of their hits, including "Sherry".

'57 also gave us "Black Slacks," by Joe Bennett and the Sparkletones.

1957 was a big year in fashion as well, as couturier Cristobal Balenciaga introduced his shape shrouding sack, or chemise, dress. In 1958, Gerry Granahan expressed his displeasure in "No Chemise, Please."

In 1959 thirteen year old Dodie Stevens (exactly my age then) hit the charts with "Pink Shoelaces."

Bryan Hyland made the top ten and Dick Clark's American Bandstand in 1960 with "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini." The woman in high tops and pantaloons who gives the spoken interjections is Trudy Packer.


Another 1960 release was the Coasters' paleo-rap "Shoppin' for Clothes," written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who had earlier penned "Hound Dog" for Big Mama Thornton, later covered by Elvis. Coasters member Billy Guy was working with the songwriters, and remembered a similar piece he'd heard on the radio. They searched record stores but couldn't find it. Later they learned it was "Clothes Line," written by Kent Harris and recorded by Boogaloo and his Gallant Crew. Harris was then given co-credit for "Shoppin' for Clothes."


I'll close, as did many a school dance, with Bobby Vinton's 1963 prom belly-rubber "Blue Velvet," which later inspired a David Lynch movie.

I'll do a second installment featuring songs from the late 1960s to the present. If anyone can think of clothes-themed songs from the period covered in this post or later, please let me know.

Some odd observations about Cantor's loss.

There were a couple of things on the New York Times editorial pages for Thursday, June 12 that I found interesting concerning the outcome of the Virginia Republican Congressional primary that spelled the end of Eric Cantor's incumbency as House Majority Leader. One was a letter from Jonathan Ansell, of Henrico, Virginia, which I quote in full:

In Virginia, anyone can vote in primaries, regardless of party affiliation. I am a Democrat who lives in the Seventh District, and I voted for David Brat as an anti-Eric Cantor vote. I know there were many Democrats who did the same thing. I don't know if people like us swung the vote or not, but we're happy he's out.

Mr. Ansell seems content with the fact that Cantor has been punished; though he doesn't say so, he may believe that replacing Cantor with Brat, even though the latter is probably more intransigently reactionary, is a net gain. As another Times letter writer, Joan White, notes, "he will not have Mr. Cantor's power."

The conventional wisdom is that the Seventh District is so deeply Republican that Brat is all but assured of victory in the general election. Josh Israel in Think Progress believes the race is "potentially competitive", based on polling that suggests a majority of residents of the district hold views on subjects like immigration that are different than Mr. Brat's. Still, another bit of conventional wisdom is that, in midterm elections, voter turnout is usually low and dominated by the voters who are angriest with the incumbent administration. So, while an upset by Brat's Democratic opponent, Jack Trammell,* isn't inconceivable, it's a very long shot and would almost certainly require an Herculean get-out-the-vote effort by the Democrats.

But then, there's another intriguing bit of information I got from yesterday's Times op-ed column by Gail Collins, who often makes my day brighter.** It seems that Cantor's attack ads against Brat called him a "liberal college professor." As an adjective, "liberal" seems to stick to "college professor" the way that "devout" does to "Catholic," or "hero" does to "cop" if you're a headline writer for a New York tabloid. Still, Milton Friedman was a college professor (OK, maybe he was the exception that proves the rule, whatever that means.) And Brat a liberal? Well, before I give Cantor four Pinocchios, I have to remember that he can plead the truth of his characterization, if only by referring to a definition of "liberal" that was current in the nineteenth century. That definition drew upon the etymological root of "liberal" which is shared with "liberty." The project of the nineteenth century liberals was to achieve what has come to be called "negative liberty": the freedom to conduct one's trade and one's life unfettered by the arbitrary power of the monarchy or hereditary aristocracy. This classic liberalism comes close to what is today called libertarianism. In today's usage, "liberal" as a political descriptor has taken on a second meaning of "liberal" as used in non-political discourse: "generous" or "munificent." (Here some of my Republican friends will want to add, "...with the taxpayers' money!" That leads to an argument we can have later. I'm working on a post that discusses how the meaning of "conservative" has changed as much, if not more, than has that of "liberal.") Today's liberalism embraces what has come to be called "positive liberty," as well as recognizing what it believes to be necessary limits on negative liberty. For more of my views on this subject, see "Genghis Kahn: the first liberal?" Anyway, Collins's column had me wondering how many people voted for Brat thinking he really is a liberal, in the contemporary sense. Well, maybe some of those Democrats who crossed over to vote in the GOP primary did.

Brian Beuteler, in that reliable scourge of conventional wisdom The New Republic,*** writes that Cantor's loss is really no big deal.

I was amused to see Cantor, in the photo above, wearing a Spitzer tie. Someday the word will get out that it's the cravat of political calamity.
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*  Both Brat and Trammell are professors at Randolph-Macon College. Whatever happens in November, we know that Randy Mac will be represented in Congress.

**Consider this, from Collins's Cantor column:

[W]e really do not need the Republicans in the House to become even more paranoid about a primary from the right. They’ve been nervous for a long time, but this is a whole new scenario. It’s the difference between worrying about burglars and hearing that a gopher in your neighbor’s backyard suddenly grew to be 6 feet long, broke down the door and ate all the furniture.

***Reliable, that is, until you get comfortable with the notion that conventional wisdom is usually wrong. Then TNR publishes a piece by Franklin Foer with the title "In Defense of Conventional Wisdom."

J. Press gets the New York real estate squeeze; Gray's Papaya in the Village goes down the hatch.

This post is about two New York City institutions--although the first is principally a New Haven institution and my first contact with it was in Cambridge, Massachusetts--that have recently disappeared, although in the instance of the first one the disappearance may be temporary, and in the instance of the second it is fortunately not complete. That I'm sorry to see them both go reflects two disparate--some might say incoherent--sides of my personality.

My first contact with the clothier J. Press was in the late spring of 1970. I was about to graduate from law school, and needed a suit. Press had a store on Mount Auburn Street in Cambridge, and I'd gotten word that they sold good clothes. I showed up the day after a big Harvard Square anti-war riot, and found that all of the store's windows had been broken and covered with plywood. I was about to turn back, but saw a hand lettered sign by the door: "We're open, please come in."

It was a bit gloomy inside, but before long I found a suit I liked, one that spoke to my characteristic desire to achieve two incompatible goals: to be at once conventional and daring. It was a traditional natural shoulder center vented three button with plain fronted trousers in charcoal gray, but with a subtle electric blue windowpane check. As I was trying on the jacket, I said to the salesman, "It looks like you bore the brunt of the attack yesterday." "Oh, yes sir," he said, "I was here through the whole thing. These people, sir, they were the very scum of the earth. You could tell by the way they were dressed."

After I graduated and started work at a New York law firm, my suit caught the disapproving eye of a partner who was the firm's unofficial sartorial enforcer. That electric blue check didn't please him. He suggested I try Brooks Brothers. I did; they had a branch conveniently located downtown near my firm's offices. On my first visit there, another man asked a clerk if they had what were then called "permanent press" shirts. "Oh, no sir," the clerk said witheringly, "We are an all cotton store." I bought some sufficiently conservative togs there, though I later managed to push the envelope a bit by getting a dark brown suit with maroon chalk stripes.

I also found J. Press's New York store, on 44th Street between Madison and Fifth avenues, just around the corner from Brooks's main store at 346 Madison. I shopped at Press on occasion, although I don't have a clear recollection of what I bought. Vaguely, I can summon from memory a mustard yellow blazer--or was it a blue blazer and mustard yellow slacks? They also had good ties. As years went by, I became more of a Brooks loyalist; I don't recall the last time I went into J. Press, but it was certainly over twenty years ago. A few years ago, I was walking along 44th and saw their storefront was vacant. My heart sank a bit. Though I hadn't shopped there in years, I still cherished the memory of my first encounter with Press in Cambridge. Moreover, I liked their commitment to the classic three button jacket style, as in the photo above, and their willingness to do things a little bit daring, like putting the jacket over a tennis (or cricket) sweater, or like the windowpane check on my suit. I was relieved to learn that they had just moved their store to a new location at Madison and 47th Street.

Now I've learned, through the good offices of Francis Morrone, that the store at Madison and 47th has closed because the landlord is renovating the building, although my further research shows that the owners may reopen the store at a different New York location, perhaps in 2015. If they do, I will go there and buy something, even if it's only a tie.

And now, as the Pythons were wont to say, for something completely different:

Gray's Papaya at Sixth Avenue (that's Avenue of the Americas for non-New Yorkers) and Eighth Street was my resort for a quick and satisfying tummy fill and revitalizing fruit drink on many a decadent Greenwich Village night in my dissolute unmarried days (and a few post-marriage ones, about which my wife had something to say). I always got the "Recession Special" (available no matter what the condition of the GNP, the unemployment rate, or the stock market: $1.95 back in the 1990s* for two dogs, which I always got with mustard and kraut, and a sixteen ounce papaya drink) and left feeling much the better for it, which is more than I can say for most fast food outlets. 

Sad as I am about losing this connection to my mid-life crisis, I'm even more distressed to know what's replacing it: "a shiny health food shop that sells pricey liquified kale and wheatgrass." Not that I have anything against "health food"; I occasionally indulge. The key is "pricey": the Village has lost its Bohemian charm and become a bedroom community for the well-to-do as well as a place mostly catering to tourists. In this respect I must re-post here some of what my friend Dave Coles had to say:

Walking east toward Sixth, I find only interlopers: sushi bars and designer hair salons; sterile boutique windows lit by laser-tight pins of light; card shops touting ribbons and balloons, any kind of trifle; coffee chains and sandwich franchises, the commerce and character of Village streets having become nearly indistinguishable from any in Cleveland or Wilmington or Naperville.

I remember reading somewhere that Lou Reed liked to get his "mystery tubesteaks" at Gray's. Perhaps it's fitting that the Village Gray's died shortly after its perhaps most famous regular customer. At least the Gray's at Broadway and 72nd Street survives for now. Someday soon I'll make the trip to the Upper Left Side.
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*According to Gothamist, in 2008 Gray's raised the price of the "Recession Special" to $4.45, after previous increases in 2002 and 2006. The article quotes Mr. Gray: "It's always very traumatic for me as well as the customers."

Your correspondent does a stupid human trick.

Friday morning we were under a blizzard warning, so I chose to wear my L.L. Bean boots to work. Rushing to get underway, I saw a pair of the boots in the hall, and pulled them on, thinking that my wife, who had left a few minutes before, had left them there for me to find easily. I noticed that they seemed a bit snug, but didn't pay it much mind. As I walked to the subway, I felt the boots squeezing my toes, and wondered if my feet had grown since the last time I wore them. On the way home, they felt excruciatingly tight. "Damn!" I thought, "I'll have to spring for a new pair."

I got to our door, slipped the wet boots off in the hall, and felt welcome relief. I padded inside in my stocking feet, reached for my slippers under the bed, and, whoa!, there were my Bean boots where I usually keep them. I'd just spent an entire day wearing my wife's boots. She had decided that morning to wear her tall Hunter boots, and left the Bean boots outside the closet in her hurry. Somehow, I managed not to notice the lighter tan leather uppers on hers (see photo above). I trust I won't make that mistake again.

The strange persistence of the Spitzer tie.

You might well think that a distinctive and prominent item of clothing worn by a disgraced politician in the very moment of his public humiliation would instantly lose its appeal. When I saw the now ex-Governor on TV confessing his indiscretion, I thought he was bringing to an end the long time popularity (at least since I was in college, which was just over forty years ago) of a particular rep stripe patterned cravat. Such a tie, I was convinced, would be indelibly stained by its association with infamy and self-destruction.


Evidently not, as witness this window display at Brooks Brothers' flagship Madison Avenue store today.