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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1968: PETULA CLARK & The YOUNG RASCALS

The Batman Theme song sent me on a flying frenzy through the house, with a cape (actually, a pink and white striped bath towel) around my shoulders. This uncontrollable behavior culminated in spilling grape juice on the (we just took off the price tag) new couch, leaving a permanent dark purple stain on the olive green and harvest gold floral upholstery.


Petula Clark songs always made me very happy. She always looked so graceful and friendly on TV variety shows, but what exactly about those songs snagged my attention?

Her hits were full-bodied, lush arrangements with big, gooey choruses, it’s true, but for a 3 year old, it’s all about the tambourines! Check into any of Petula’s big hits and note that it hits lift off the very moment the tambourine enters the mix.

I also remember twirling madly about the room to the bridge and final chorus of The Young Rascal's “How Can I Be Sure.” I’m fascinated by how this song - along with Petula Clark and Bacharach/David - enchanted me as a cherub and then went on to remain my most enduring favorites. I instinctively loved intricate, orchestral pop then, and marvel at it now. This doesn’t prove that, with potty training out of the way, I was able to develop good musical taste. It only proves that great art communicates on such a primal level that even a 3-year old gets it.

Intro to Batman TV show.

Petula Clark - I Couldn't Live Without Your Love

Hear Young Rascal's How Can I Be Sure
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1967: BURT BACHARACH & The MONKEES

The radio was always on in our house or cars, and what spoke loudest to my toddler soul were the songs
of Burt Bacharach & Hal David.

I was not yet aware of California’s existence, but when Dionne Warwick asked “Do You Know the Way To San Jose?” I answered yes, because I was sure I could find such a magical place just by wishing it so. Anything that came from The House Of Bacharach enchanted me then, does so now, and will till the day I die.

Conine’s teenage daughter, Melba, had a strange little box of a record player. I was intrigued at how the vinyl records hung over the edge of the box, and that a penny was taped to the moving arm that made noise when it hit the vinyl.

Melba had many albums but the ones that caught my toddler eye and ear were The Monkees. On the album covers, they were always smiling and jumping about. Pick any song, and during the first listen, I could sing along by the halfway mark. There were so many repetitions of “Papa Gene’s Blues” that Conine would demand I move onto another song.

It would be another 3 years before I caught their TV show as Saturday morning re-runs, but everything I needed to know about them was right there in the records: these guys were cute and their music was fun. Later in life, I’d demand so much more of the bands I liked, but I’m enchanted with the basics established as a toddler: Cute & Fun & Catchy Songs. There’s majesty in that simplicity.

See Burt & Dionne working together in the studio, 1970.

The Monkees do "Sweet Young Thing."
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