295. Clive Dunn – Grandad (1971)

The first number 1 of 1971 had narrowly missed out on the 1970 Christmas number 1 spot, and although it’s not fit for much, it would have made a more fitting yuletide chart-topper than I Hear You Knocking. Grandad, by comedy actor Clive Dunn, was a canny grab at the purse-strings of pensioners and children, and in that sense was an early pioneer of the novelty Christmas song market. Factor in Dunn’s popularity as doddery old Lance Corporal Jones in BBC One sitcom Dad’s Army, and there’s little surprise it spent three weeks at number 1.

Clive Robert Benjamin Dunn was born in Brixton, South London on 9 January 1920, meaning he had only turned 51 on the day his one-hit wonder about life as an OAP hit pole position. Both his parents were actors, and his cousin was Gretchen Franklin – better known as Ethel in BBC One soap opera EastEnders. Dunn had small roles in films while at school in the 30s, appearing alongside comedy actor Will Hay in Boys Will Be Boys in 1935.

Dunn’s acting ambitions were swept to one side when he served in World War Two for real, joining the British Army in 1940. He served in the Middle East until 1941 when he and hundreds of others were forced to surrender. Dunn was held as a POW in Austria for four years, but stayed with the Army upon his release, until 1947, when he returned to acting.

Fast forward to the mid-50s, and Dunn had found his calling in comedy roles, making several appearances alongside Tony Hancock on ITV and his classic radio series Hancock’s Half-Hour. In the early 60s he took on a role that would define the rest of his career, playing a comical 83-year-old man in ITV sitcom Bootsie and Snudge. He was only 38 at the time.

This made Dunn a natural choice to star in Dad’s Army as the nervy butcher Jones in 1968. As one of the youngest members of cast he could take the brunt of any physical comedy. The role in Jimmy Perry and David Croft’s sitcom made Dunn one of the most popular comedy stars of the era.

In 1970 Dunn met top session bassist Herbie Flowers at a BBC party. Flowers was a founding member of Melting Pot hitmakers Blue Mink and played bass on David Bowie’s Space Oddity (number 1 on its re-release in 1975). Upon discovering his occupation, Dunn allegedly challenged Flowers to write him a hit song.

So Flowers went away and with Dunn’s Dad’s Army character clearly in mind, he wrote a novelty song written from the point of view of an old man looking back at his youth. However, he was stuck for a chorus, until his friend Kenny Pickett (singer with 60s rock band The Creation) called round. Ringing the doorbell, a standard ‘ding dong’ chimed, and Flowers had the simple but scarily effective hook he was looking for.

Over a leaden backing featuring ukelele, Flowers’ bass (I assume), and parping brass, Dunn recalls penny farthings, penny dreadfuls, ‘talking things’, and best of all, how ‘Motorcars were funny things, frightening’, when he was a lad. At the exact point you’re hoping his nurse will interject and give him his medication or clean him up, in comes a sickly kiddie choir, thankfully kept to a minimum, singing ‘Grandad, grandad you’re lovely
/That’s what we all think of you’. Let’s be grateful they didn’t overdo it, unlike the similar Christmas number 1 of 1980, There’s No One Quite Like Grandma. Incidentally, co-producer Ray Cameron, is comedian Michael McIntyre’s dad.

It’s rotten, cynical stuff, but at least Flowers made up for it. He’s played on hundreds of hits over the years, and among other things, was a member of CSS, T. Rex and Sky. He also performed on Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of The War of the Worlds, but most notably, he was the man behind the bass line on Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side. So we can forgive him.

We can forgive Dunn too, such was his charm. He was a staunch socialist too, who would argue with Conservative voter Arthur Lowe over politics, so he’s alright by me (although he did have a brief flirtation with Oswald Moseley’s British Union of Fascists in his youth, which he regretted). He was also known for his friendliness towards autograph seekers.

Dad’s Army ended in 1977, and two years later Dunn found work playing – what else? – an old man in BBC children’s series Grandad. Despite the obvious similarities, it was unrelated to his number 1. When his role as Charlie Quick ended in 1984, Dunn retired and moved to Portugal.

It blew my young mind, growing up on repeats of Dad’s Army in the 80s, to know that Dunn was one of the youngest cast members and one of the few still alive. But even he got old for real eventually, and he died as a result of operation complications on 6 November 2012, aged 92.

Written by: Herbie Flowers & Kenny Pickett

Producers: Peter Dulay & Ray Cameron

Weeks at number 1: 3 (9-29 January)

Births:

Artist Jay Burridge – 12 January
Actress Lara Cazalet – 15 January
Take That singer-songwriter Gary Barlow – 20 January
Scottish snooker player Alan McManus – 21 January
Sports broadcaster Clare Balding – 29 January

Deaths:

Northern Irish dramatist St John Greer Ervine – 24 January
Psychoanalyst – Donald Winnicott – 28 January

Meanwhile…

12 January: The Hertfordshire home of Robert Carr, Secretary of State for Employment, was bombed, but nobody was injured.

14 January: Extremist group The Angry Brigade claimed responsibility for the bombing of Robert Carr’s house, in addition to planting a bomb at the Department of Employment offices at Westminster.

20 January: UPW General Secretary Tom Jackson led the first ever postal workers’ strike took place. Workers were insisting on a 19.5% pay rise.

21 January: After collapsing in March 1969, a newly reconstructed Emley Moor transmitter in West Yorkshire starts again. It became Britain’s tallest freestanding structure, a concrete tower standing at 1084ft.

23 January: The first Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting, in Singapore, gave Britain permission to sell weapons to South Africa.

275. Zager and Evans – In the Year 2525 (Exordium & Terminus) (1969)

Folk duo Zager and Evans’ one and only hit In the Year 2525 (Exordium & Terminus) was a kitschy sci-fi doom-laden track that proved to be a timely release in the aftermath of the Apollo 11 moon landing. But it’s certainly no Space Oddity.

Denny Zager and Rick Evans were both born in Nebraska, in 1944 and 1943 respectively. They met at Nebraska Welseyan University in 1962. While there they joined the band The Eccentrics, along with drummer Danny Schindler (who later joined The Benders… stop laughing).

In 1965 Schindler left for Vietnam, and Evans then also left the group. At some point in the previous year, he had written the original, unheard version of In the Year 2525 (Exordium & Terminus), which was likely more in keeping with the fashionable folk-rock scene of the period.

They went into the studio to record their hit after becoming a duo in 1968, by which point they had backing from Mark Dalton on bass and Dave Trupp on drums, who both also played with The Liberation Blues Band.

I don’t think I’ve ever got over the fact that In the Year 2525 (Exordium & Terminus) doesn’t live up to its name. It should be cosmic psychedelic rock, like Funkadelic, but it’s musically dull, repetitive and dated – it doesn’t even stand up to scrutiny when you try and excuse it by saying ‘well it was written in 1964 originally’. Folk music was already in much more adventurous territory back then.

Zager and Evans think they are smarter than us and want us to know that humans are doomed. Now, I happen to agree with them, especially with the current state of our politics, and reading recently that we have 18 months left to save the planet from climate change, but many artists have made this point way, way better than Zager and Evans. The lyrics are awful. Sixth-form standard, if that. Some of their predictions are prescient, such as the rise of automation, but their time scales are stupidly huge. Every verse jumps up from 2525 to 6565, with various nightmare scenarios. Some genuinely horrible, such as ‘Ain’t gonna need your teeth, won’t need your eyes’, but some which are pure pulp fiction, like taking a pill every day that controls your thoughts. Sounds like an episode of Star Trek, which never did much for me.

Then we suddenly jump to talk of judgement day in 7510, purely because they want a number that rhymes with the dire line ‘If God’s-a-coming, he ought to make it by then.’ Well, you’d hope so, wouldn’t you?! But no, we shoot all the way up to 9595, and Zager and Evans are ‘kinda wondering if mankind is still alive’. All over the same boring rhythm. And then, we’re back in the year 2525, and it starts all over again! God, please don’t wait, put us out of our misery now!

I’m all for a bit of melodrama, but the pompous vocals lay it on so thick, it goes from laughable to just really grating. I kept this song in my collection for years, as I found it comically bad for a while, then after listening to it for this blog, I realised I don’t ever want to hear it again, and deleted it. It all also sounds like I imagine a no-deal Brexit could wind up, and we’re getting dangerously close to that. Much more enjoyable is Flight of the Conchords’ spoof of this sort of thing, The Distant Future.

With the decade drawing to a close, and man landing on the moon, thoughts were turning to what the future held, and if we even had one. And purely for these reasons, Zager and Evans found themselves at number one in the US and the UK. They seized the moment and recorded an album, 2525 (Exordium & Terminus) with Trupp and Dalton plus other musicians.

And how did they follow up their number 1 single? With Mr Turnkey, a song in which they expected the listener to feel sympathy for a convicted rapist as he kills himself in prison. Poptastic! Needless to say, they this sank without trace. I’m almost curious to hear such a terrible idea for a single. Almost, but not quite.

Zager and Evans released an eponymous album in 1970, before splitting up after 1971’s Food for the Mind. The one-hit wonders disappeared, though Evans later recorded with Pam Herbert and formed his own label, Fun Records in the late 70s, on which he released new material and re-recorded Zager and Evans songs.

Evans died in April 2018, to no media attention whatsoever, which makes me feel rather sad. I may be highly critical of the song, but he had his time in the spotlight and it should have been noted, however short it may have been. In spring this year, his recordings made it on to eBay after relatives disposed of his estate.

Zager is still alive and builds custom guitars at Zager Guitars in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Written by: Rick Evans

Producers: Zager & Evans

Weeks at number 1: 3 (30 August-19 September)

Meanwhile…

29-31 August: By the time Honky Tonk Women was knocked off its lofty perch after five weeks, the second Isle of Wight Festival was in full swing. 150,000 people witnessed Bob Dylan’s comeback, and The Who put on a memorable show. Other acts included Free, The Bonzo Dog Band and The Moody Blues.

11 September: Housing charity Shelter released a report that claimed up to 3,000,000 people were in need of rehousing due to poor living conditions.

16 September: Iconic 60s fashion store Biba reopened on Kensington High Street.

267. Peter Sarstedt (Arranged & Conducted by Ian Green) – Where Do You Go To (My Lovely) (1969)

Ruling the charts from the end of February and for most of March was singer-songwriter Peter Sarstedt, younger brother of Richard, better known as Eden Kane, who had a number 1 in 1961 with Well I Ask You.

Sarstedt was born in Delhi, India on 10 December 1941. One of his younger brothers, Clive (stage name Robin) also enjoyed chart action in 1976. The Sarstedt’s musicality stemmed from their parents, both of whom were classically-trained. Following his father’s death in 1954, the family moved to South London.

The three Sarstedts, all guitarists, became part of a skiffle group called The Fabulous Five. They performed at church halls and coffee bars around Croydon before becoming a beat group known as The Saints, with Richard becoming the singer. Peter switched to bass when Richard became Eden Kane, and played in his backing group until 1965, when Kane moved to Australia.

And so Peter Sarstedt briefly emigrated to Copenhagen, changed his stage name to Peter Lincoln and began writing folk songs. He quickly reverted to his real name, and in 1968 he signed a deal with United Artists.

His first single I Am a Cathedral was a failure, and his label didn’t expect the follow-up to fare any better when presented with Where Do You Go To (My Lovely). They complained it was too long (the album version is even longer), had only three instruments (one of which was an accordion), and no drums. It’s likely Sarstedt had no intention of this becoming a hit single, to be fair. He was performing in folk clubs, and needed some lengthier material.

How did this waltz-time ballad, filled with references to Gallic culture, make it to number 1 and remain there for a month? I’m scratching my head and can only think it’s exactly those references that did it. Holidays abroad were still a luxury in 1969, and perhaps, like Albatross, the idea of heading off to sunnier climes appealed to a cold, rain-sodden British public. And maybe owners of this record felt smug and sophisticated?

John Peel hated this song, calling it ‘self-satisfied’, ‘terrible’ and ‘hideous’, and he certainly wasn’t the only detractor there’s been. But I can actually enjoy it. I can definitely take his points on board, but I feel it’s so smug, it’s actually enjoyable.

Sarstedt tells the story of Marie-Claire, who grew up in poverty in Naples, and her friend (future lover?), the person singing the song, is basically winding her up about the fact that she can be a beautiful socialite now she’s in her twenties, she can wear expensive jewellery and clothes, she can take expensive holidays, she can have the Aga Khan buy her racehorses, etc, but she can’t escape her past, because he knows how fucked up she is when she’s alone in her bed. Pretty mean-spirited really.

Perhaps she’s left him behind and he feels hard done by, perhaps she fucked him over, perhaps she’s become a horrible, arrogant posh girl… but we’re not told any of this, so the narrator comes across as a pretty nasty piece of work

But like I said, I do enjoy Where Do You Go To (My Lovely). Me and one of my housemates at university used to listen to a compilation of 60s number 1s, and when this came on, we used to sing little insults at the end of each verse, as though Sartedt’s resentment became a little, let’s say, more basic as his frustration grew, for example: ‘Your clothes are all made by Balmain/And there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are/You fucking twat’. Try it! Once you do, there’s no going back, though. Perhaps if John Peel had done similar, he could have learned to appreciate it.

In a 2009 interview with The Daily Express, Sarstedt revealed Marie-Claire was not based on Sophia Loren, which was a popular misconception, but his ex-wife, who had become a dentist in Copenhagen. As writer Mark Steyn brilliantly put it, ‘Peter Sarstedt has spent 40 years singing about wanting to look inside her head. And for most of that time Anita has made a living by looking inside yours.’

Where Do You Go To (My Lovely) enjoyed success throughout Europe, as well as Australia and Japan, but failed in the US. Sarstedt’s number 1 even shared the Ivor Novello award for best song of 1969 with David Bowie’s Space Oddity. However, apart from the follow-up Frozen Orange Juice and his eponymous debut LP, he had no further chart fame.

During the 70s he teamed up with his brothers again for the 1973 album Worlds Apart Together. He spent much of the 80s on the Solid Silver 60s nostalgia tour. In 1997 he released the album England’s Lane, which featured his brothers one last time, and it also included a sequel to Marie-Claire’s story, The Last of the Breed, which featured a more sympathetic chorus: ‘You keep your secrets inside Marie-Claire/What right have the paparazzi to pry?/No-one’s interested in knowing the truth/But they’ll always believe in a lie’.

There were more albums in the 21st century, including On Song in 2006. The following year, Where Do You Go To (My Lovely) enjoyed a brief renaissance thanks to it featuring in the Wes Anderson movie The Darjeeling Limited.

2010 saw the singer-songwriter perform for the last time. In 2013 he released his final album, Restless Heart. He was working on the third and final part of his Marie-Claire trilogy when he fell ill that year and was misdiagnosed with dementia. Sarstedt went to live in a retirement home and was diagnosed correctly with progressive supranuclear palsy two years later. He died on 8 January 2017, aged 75.

Written by: Peter Sarstedt

Producer: Ray Singer

Weeks at number 1: 4 (26 February-25 March)

Births:

Super Furry Animals drummer Dafydd Ieuan – 1 March

Deaths:

Writer John Wyndham – 11 March
Bandleader Billy Cotton – 25 March

Meanwhile…

2 March: Concorde completed its 27-minute maiden flight.

4 March: Ronnie and Reggie Kray were both found guilty of murder (Ronnie of George Cornell, Reggie of Jack ‘the Hat’ McVitie). The next day, they were sentenced to life imprisonment with a recommended minimum of 30 years. The notorious twins’ gangland reign of London was over.

7 March: The Queen opened the Victoria line on the London Underground. Running between Brixton and Walthamstow Central, it was the first entirely new line for 50 years.

17 March: One of the worst lifeboat disasters in British history occurred when the Longhope from Orkney was lost, killing all eight crew members.

19 March: The 385-metre-tall Emley Moor television mast collapsed due to icing.