December 1969: Avon & "Shadrack"

Grandma Hester, aside from becoming a freshly minted widow, was a veteran Avon lady, so we had all of the Avon Christmas compilations. Sure, I liked a lot of the songs, but I mainly dug the record covers, which were modern, late 60s graphics that made me think more about The Jetsons than Santa Claus or the little Baby Jesus.

Even though it wasn’t exactly holiday music, I found the Peter King Orchestra’s version of “Shadrack” emotionally appropriate for Christmas. There was something so dark brown and crimson red about it, the male and female choir creating this pleasant tension. It was so dramatic that I was compelled to act out all the parts of the song, which could get exhausting during the rowdier passages. I’d discovered the concept of organic musical theater without any outside prompting, which is why suspension of disbelief for Hollywood musicals comes so easily to me.

See and hear a version of the song by The Larks.
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November 1969: PETER PAUL & MARY - "Leaving on a Jet Plane"

My Mother’s father died. Grandpa Walter was my first corpse in a casket, and rather than being creeped out by the waxen sight, I was overcome with the sensation of missing someone who wouldn’t be coming back.

“I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again,” was my explanation of where Grandpa went, and for days after the wake, I roamed about the house, singing this song while looking for him. I walked in on Mom ironing and told her to hurry up because we had bags to pack and a plane to catch, but she wasn’t buying my theory that Grandpa would be at the airport waiting for us.

See and hear the song.
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November 1969: The MONKEES - "This Just Doesn't Seem to Be My Day"

By now, the albums I once loved sprang to life because the Monkee’s TV show was being re-run as part of Saturday morning kids’ programming. And my parents gave Conine a bit of a break by enrolling me in Northland Day Care, a nursery school in Ferguson, MO run by Miss Ruth and her daughters.

A stormy morning kept us inside, and I got stuck playing with a set of pink plastic ballerina figures. Ballet meant classical music, and to my mind, the bridge of “This Just Doesn’t Seem to Be My Day” was classical music. I sang that part of the song aloud while spinning the figurines across the table until some snot-nosed girl snatched them away from me. I watched as she violently spun them around, and then she looked perplexed.

“Where’s the sound?” she asked, jabbing a pink plastic pirouette in my face.
I pointed to myself and said, “Right here.” Then I walked away and left her with her silent toys.

See and hear the song.
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Summer 1969: BLOOD SWEAT & TEARS - "Spinning Wheel" & "And When I Die"

I was deep into a Cowboys & Indians phase, complete with dime store plastic figurines and a hand-me-down Paladin leather holster and gun set. What with “ride a painted pony” and the jauntiness of “swear there ain’t no heaven but I pray there ain’t no hell,” Blood, Sweat & Tears became the house band of my imaginary Wild West saloon. I thought the definition of “swagger” was David Clayton Thomas’ voice, making him seem so much more macho than those John Wayne westerns Dad watched on Sunday afternoons.


See and hear the song.
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May 1969: THREE DOG NIGHT - "One"

For a family vacation, we drove the bright red station wagon down to the Lake of the Ozarks. This song played on the radio as we tooled down a sunny, country lane. Dad turned down the volume to talk to Mom, and I was afraid the song would die if we couldn’t hear it. So I repeatedly sang the chorus to keep it alive until they turned it back up.

See and hear the song.

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January 1969: DUSTY SPRINGFIELD - "Son of a Preacher Man"

I vividly remember hearing this song come over the radio, because it felt like the singer was in the room with me. Her voice was so warm and alive, and I swore she was standing behind me, breathing in my ear. I could hear each intake of breath, I could feel her sly smile.

The lyrics also made an impression because we’d just finished the Christmas season, and the concept of people going to church for Jesus’ birthday had finally clicked in. Hearing this pretty lady (and with a voice like that, surely she was pretty) sing about a Preacher Man allowed me to connect the dots: When religion took place in a church, it was the voice of God. When religion took place outside of church, it was Dusty’s voice.

See and hear the song.
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