Sunday, February 8, 2015

Long Distance Dedication: Bob Dylan and the Top Forty

Bob Dylan’s speech at the MusiCares benefit on Friday night has garnered a lot of attention for its attacks on legendary figures like Leiber & Stoller, Ahmet Ertegun and Merle Haggard, all of whom supposedly committed the sin of not liking Dylan’s songs. But I wanted to discuss his frontal assault on the somewhat hapless Tom T. Hall. Once considered a great country singer and songwriter, Hall's reputation has fallen on hard times, in part because of his lone pop hit, and that's what Dylan took aim at.

“Now some might say Tom is a great songwriter,” Dylan said. “I'm not going to doubt that. At the time he was doing this interview I was actually listening to a song of his on the radio.

“It was called ‘I Love.’ I was listening to it in a recording studio, and he was talking about all the things he loves, an everyman kind of song, trying to connect with people. Trying to make you think that he's just like you and you're just like him. We all love the same things, and we're all in this together. Tom loves little baby ducks, slow-moving trains and rain. He loves old pickup trucks and little country streams. Sleeping without dreams. Bourbon in a glass. Coffee in a cup. Tomatoes on the vine, and onions.

“Now listen, I'm not ever going to disparage another songwriter. I'm not going to do that. I'm not saying it's a bad song. I'm just saying it might be a little overcooked.”

Oh come on, Bob, you’re saying it’s a bad song. Man up.

The thing is, everyone thought it was a bad song, and a lot of people felt betrayed by it, because Hall was known as one of the most incisive storytellers in Nashville. Or I should say everyone thought it was a bad song except the American public, since “I Love” went to No. 12 in early 1974, becoming Tom T. Hall’s only Top Forty pop hit. After years of toiling in Nashville relatively anonymously, who can blame him for selling out and trying to garner a hit song? The 1983 edition of the Rolling Stone Record Guide noted, “Lately he’s seemed more interested in selling pickup trucks than in writing a good song.” No doubt, the pickup trucks pay a lot better. I sure hope Hall got some dough from the movie and TV series based on his song “Harper Valley PTA.”

In the MusiCares speech, Dylan unfavorably compared “I Love” to “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” by Kris Kristofferson, but hey, most songs are going to lose that comparison. Most Dylan songs are going to lose that comparison.

But at the same time, Dylan clearly knew “I Love” inside and out, to the point of recalling the rhythm of it, dropping that little “and onions” onto the last line. He clearly didn’t think much of the song, but he knew it. In February of 1974, Dylan was listening to treacly Top Forty country-pop crossovers. And remembering them forever. I wonder what he thought of "I Honestly Love You."

The Tom T. Hall episode reminded me of the song “Clothes Line Saga,” on The Basement Tapes, which Dylan and the Band recorded in 1967. The structure of the song – a youngster in a rural family overhears the adults matter-of-factly discussing a tragedy, in this case the vice president going mad (“When?” Last night.” “Where?” “Downtown.” “Hmm, that’s too bad.”) – is precisely the same as Bobbie Gentry’s wonderful “Ode to Billie Joe,” a Number One hit in the summer of 1967. Clinton Heylin discovered (at least that is where I first read about it, although someone else may have seen it first) among the trove of tapes stored somewhere up in Woodstock that “Clothes Line Saga” was originally titled “Answer to Ode.” Dylan’s song was an affectionate parody of what was happening on Top Forty radio that summer.

My point is that the man was engaged. Whether it was Bobbie Gentry or Tom T. Hall – or in our own century, Alicia Keys, upon whom Dylan drooled in “Thunder on the Mountain,” from 2006’s Modern Times – he knew what was happening in the world of popular song.

Dylan approached Sheryl Crow several years back, and ended up offering to help her whenever he could. She recorded Dylan's own “Mississippi” before it appeared on “Love and Theft,” and told Austin Scaggs of Rolling Stone, “The fact that Bob Dylan even knows who I am is shocking to me.” But Dylan has always known the Sheryl Crows of the world. And the Tom T. Halls of the world.

If I had a choice between Dylan knowing and disparaging my work, or Dylan having no idea who I was, I’d take the former in a heartbeat. And if Dylan remembered a forty-year-old pop hit of mine well enough to recite one of the verses in toto – well, isn’t that victory enough?

Sunday, June 1, 2014

To Live in This Town Must Be Tough, Tough, Tough, Tough, Tough, Tough, Tough!

By 1978, the Rolling Stones had more or less relocated themselves to New York City. After Keith Richards got through his legal troubles in Toronto, he moved to South Salem in suburban Westchester County. Mick Jagger had always been a citizen of the world, but he was increasingly haunting the city by the mid-1970s. Bianca - who was still Mrs. Jagger until May of 1978, when she got tired of hearing stories about Mick chasing Jerry Hall around Bryan Ferry's pool table - had more or less set up residence at Studio 54. In October of 1978, the Stones played an infamous set (and sort-of hosted) on the season opener of NBC's Saturday Night Live, at the time the most important television show on the air, and rather proudly a product of New York City.

So it's no surprise that their album Some Girls, released in June 1978, was so steeped in the city. New York in all its filthy glamour oozes from its bones - even though the record was recorded entirely in Paris. It was even written in Paris - as Keith noted in Life, the Stones came into the studio without anything prepared and worked it all out there. Keith doesn't say anything about how New Yorky that record was, but let's take a look at it track by track:

  • "Miss You": Mick wrote this under the sway of endless evenings at Studio 54, and he hammered that home by setting the song so thoroughly in the city: "I've been walking Central Park, singing after dark, people think I'm craa-zy." People are right. And where do you think all those Puerto Rican girls live, who are just dying to meet you?
  • "When the Whip Comes Down": Jagger wrote this from the perspective of a gay man trying to find a place for himself:  He goes to 53rd Street, where people spit in his face, and runs into truckers down by the East River. Rod Stewart's "The Killing of Georgie," about the murder of a gay hustler, also takes place on 53rd Street. I worked on 53rd Street in Manhattan for several years, but I cannot vouch for the veracity of any of this.
  • "Just My Imagination": On this cover of the old Temptations song, Mick changes "out of all the girls in the world" to "out of all the girls in New York." This one really gives the game away, since there's no other reason for Mick to alter that lyric except to keep the New York theme going.
  • "Some Girls": No direct reference to New York, but what other city has white girls and black girls, English girls and French girls and Chinese girls and Italian girls? It ain't Akron.
  • "Lies": Again no direct reference to New York - except that "Lies" is also the title of a big hit song by the Knickerbockers. Get it?
  • "Respectable": This tale of a woman who's now respected in society certainly seems to be set in New York, especially with the chugging punk guitars.
  • "Before They Make Me Run": No New York City content. "Before They Make Me Run" is a total Keith song, and as I noted, he doesn't seem to be aware that the Stones were making a NYC album.
  • "Beast of Burden":  No New York City content.
  • "Shattered": Arguably the New York Citiest song of all time, at least prior to "People Who Died." I can't give it away on Seventh Avenue.

Buck Owens: The antithesis of New York City
I left off "Far Away Eyes," which is the exception that proves the rule. It is the musical outlier on the album, a Buck Owens tribute explicitly set in Buck's hometown of Bakersfield. "Far Away Eyes" makes the rest of Some Girls seem that much more cosmopolitan by contrast.

There have been other albums steeped in one specific geographic area: the early Beach Boys records, for instance, and all those mid-period Kinks albums about English small-town living that no one actually listens to. And I'd throw in the outer-borough sensibility of Fountains of Wayne's Welcome Interstate Managers.

But all those groups were writing about their homes. The Stones weren't from New York; like Holly Golightly, they moved there from somewhere else but came to embody the city.  Like Holly, they had to adapt a little, trying on the disco boots of "Miss You," but New York likes that sort of thing. (This makes "Far Away Eyes" their Doc Golightly.) That theme of adapting is reflected on the infamous album cover, where the Stones are transformed into bouffanted advertising models whose hairstyles you can change by sliding out the inner sleeve. Fun for the kids!

The Rolling Stones bestrode the earth like a colossus in the late 1970s - "Miss You" would prove to be their last Number One hit, "Beast of Burden" went Top Ten, and even "Shattered" made the Top Forty, briefly sharing the charts with Ace Frehley's "New York Groove." They sauntered into New York City as if they owned the place, and for a while, they did. They came, they saw, they conquered.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Rhyme That Sprang From Me

Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs, which we've discussed in this space before, has a lot of fun with Neil Diamond's song "I Am... I Said," particularly the line in the chorus where Neil laments the inability of a chair to hear him. "What kind of line is that?" Barry writes. "Is Neil telling us that he's surprised the chair didn't hear him? Maybe he expected the chair to say, 'Whoa, I heard THAT."

Dave Barry is great, but he's way off-line on this one, for several different reasons. For one thing, it's pretty clear that Neil wrote the line that way to emphasize his solitude, to point up the fact that he was all alone with nothing to keep him company but the furniture, and frankly the furniture doesn't even sound all that nice. It may be a little awkward and prone to misreading, but on its own terms, it makes sense.

On top of that, there's the fact that if you're looking for lines in "I Am...  I Said" that make even less sense than that one, you don't have to look far. "I'm not a man who likes to swear, but I never cared for the sound of being alone," Neil avers. That's great, but where's the swear? Maybe "I'm not a man who likes to swear" is just a helpful signpost letting us know that there won't be any cusswords in the song.

Then there's "Did you ever hear about a frog who dreamed of being a king/And then became one." Well, no, Neil, now that you mention it, I haven't heard that story. I heard about a prince who was turned into a frog, and wanted to kiss a princess to break the spell, and I guess frog -> prince -> demise of father and/or older brother -> king would make a logical progression, but I always just thought that frog dreamed of kissing a girl. (By the way, Diamond likes this line so much he made a logo out of it, a frog wearing a crown.)

Even the title doesn't make much sense. An ellipsis is used to show where some words have been left out, so if the song went "I am hungry for spareribs, as I said to the butcher," "I Am... I Said" would be a logical title. As the phrase is used in the song, the title should be punctuated "'I Am,' I Said," although obviously that's ungainly too. Strangely enough, Neil's song "Cherry, Cherry" never uses that word consecutively, so it should have been called "Cherry... Cherry." I guess it's too late to flip the punctuation in these songs' two titles.

But the real thing Dave Barry gets wrong about "I Am... I Said" is that the record is awesome. Neil Diamond was the ultimate pop craftsman, and this song is so beautifully put together. Consider how the first two lines of each stanza - "L.A.'s fine, the sun shines most of the time" - stay put on one note, as if he's just reciting then. By the next two lines, Neil has roused himself into a simple melody - "L.A.'s fine, but it ain't home, New York's home but it ain't mine no more."

Then we reach the chorus, where Neil bellows the four syllables of the title on four notes nearly an octave apart. The effect is that the song started crawling slowly from the primordial ooze, but by the time he's ready to make his declaration of purpose, it explodes.

The dynamics of the song follow a similar progression, from the relative softness of the verses to the hammer of the chorus - which then slips quickly back into a quieter, more pensive phase ("Leavin' me lonely still"). Maybe this is where the Pixies got those loud-soft-loud ideas from. And the fact that the song moves from those lugubrious lyrics about a frog who dreamed of being a king to the simplest declaration possible - "I AM!" Neil screams on the outro - emphasizes the power and simplicity of the chorus.

Most of the time that people complain about bad pop songs, it's because of a ridiculous lyric, but what they don't notice is the reason the song became a hit in the first place. "I Am... I Said" is a powerful song, even if it's not quite powerful enough to be heard by the chair.  If it's a bad Neil Diamond song you're looking for, I suggest you give a listen to "Heart Light.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Another Look at 'Another Self-Portrait'

The usually sensible Scott Lemieux over at Lawyers, Guns and Money took on a heroic task for himself today: reviewing an album he’s neverheard. Actually, it's more than that: Lemieux is attacking a review of an album he’s never heard, and giving the reasons for why that review – of an album he’s never heard, remember – is not just wrong-headed, but downright corrupt.

The album in question is Dylan’s Another Self Portrait, and the review is David Fricke’s rave in Rolling Stone, which calls the record "one of the most important, coherent and fulfilling Bob Dylan albums ever released.” Lemieux thinks that record must perforce be terrible, because Self-Portrait was terrible (hilariously invoking Greil Marcus' contemporaneous outraged pan, as if a review then must be more correct than a review now), and this is mostly a compilation of outtakes from the Self-Portrait era, although it also includes the New Morning era.

Hey, I like Self-Portrait. The cover of “Let It Be Me” features some of Dylan’s tenderest singing (backed by astonishingly good Nashville pros), and the live version of “The Mighty Quinn,” recorded with the Band at the Isle of Wight, is, to my mind, one of the greatest things Dylan ever did. Other people like “Copper Kettle” or the cover of “The Boxer” (which Lemieux himself admits to liking).

Everyone seems to agree that there’s good stuff on Self-Portrait, mixed among way to much chaff. Fricke himself, in this review, describes the original album as “tough going.” If Another Self-Portrait manages to find more of the quality stuff while ignoring the types of songs nobody likes, it’s possible it could be a good record. I don’t know - I haven’t heard it! After all, it’s not like Dylan hasn’t left great material off albums before; Lemieux cites “Blind Willie McTell,” but there’s also “Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar,” “Abandoned Love,” “I’ll Keep It With Mine,” etc. If he left stuff that good off albums he cared about, it’s highly plausible that he left good stuff off the haphazardly assembled Self-Portrait.

None of that is very interesting, though, and I wouldn’t bring it up if Lemieux hadn’t gone further and accused David Fricke of being dishonest in writing this review. I was fortunate enough to work with David for several years, and I along with everyone who worked alongside him saw him as the consummate professional. Musicians feel the same way; artists ranging from Thom Yorke to Warren Zevon (although I guess that’s just Y to Z) have agreed to sit for interviews with Rolling Stone only if David Fricke got the assignment. People don’t command that kind of respect if their opinions are for sale.

Ah, but Lemieux points out that a decade or so ago, Rolling Stone published an over-the-top five-star review of a Mick Jagger solo album, and that therefore this review must be similarly corrupt. Lemeixu has no way of knowing this, but that was a very different situation. Jagger wanted very much to be on the cover when his solo record came out, and Jann Wenner had enough sense to turn that down, but also ended up feeling guilty enough about it that he wanted to do something to compensate his longtime friend. (While Jann undoubtedly has tremendous respect for Dylan – who doesn’t? – they are not friends, not in the way he and Jagger are.)

And Wenner has no doubt paid the price for that. At this point, pretty much all anyone remembers about Mick Jagger’s solo career is that Rolling Stone published an embarrassing review of one of his albums. And also, there are people like Scott Lemieux who now think every review published in Rolling Stone is dishonest.

But you won’t find David Fricke’s name anywhere near that Jagger review, and it’s an insult to say that based on that episode, Fricke’s work must be suspect as well. Fricke may be right about Another Self-Portrait, and he may be wrong – I don’t know, because I haven’t heard the record! – but I am 100 percent certain that his opinion was come by honestly. He evinced similar enthusiasm for Tell Tale Signs, Dylan’s collection of outtakes from his late-career renaissance, excitedly writing about how you could trace the decisions Dylan was making in his singing as the takes progressed. I guess Lemieux would say that review was bought and sold as well.

On the other hand, Christmas in the Heart got only three stars in Rolling Stone, and Together Through Life four stars. I guess Jann felt it was better to butter up Dylan with inflated reviews of his outtakes rather than of his current material. The review that Lemeiux sees as so obviously corrupt awards Another Self-Portrait four and a half stars, while the reader consensus on the RS Web site awards it four stars; that extra half star must be the one that really matters to the Dylan camp.

Or maybe David Fricke just liked the record. Maybe it really is that good – I don’t know! I haven’t heard it! Since I haven’t, I’ll take the word of a highly respected rock critic who has listened carefully to the album over that of someone who hasn’t heard it (and can’t even be bothered to spell Fricke’s name correctly in his attack). Someone comes off looking pretty bad in this exchange, and it isn’t David Fricke.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

An Unrehearsed Program of News and Opinions

Issue One: Jack Germond, dead at the age of 85.
For you kiddies too young to remember, "The McLaughlin Group" – an unrehearsed program of news and opinions – was pretty much all we had back in the 1980s as far as political shoutmatches go. CNN was in its infancy, blogs and the Internet weren’t even that far, but every Sunday morning, we could tune in to four journalists and a sybaritic priest* arguing over the issues of the day.

John McLaughlin had been a Jesuit priest and unofficial advisor to the Nixon administration before being defrocked and turning to TV, roughly in that order. He was joined each weekend on his PBS chatfest by the rumpled, cynical Baltimore columnist Jack Germond, who served basically as the group’s Tip O’Neill, an old-fashioned big-city liberal. He was joined by some combination of Eleanor Clift as Pat Schroeder, Fred Barnes as Trent Lott, Morton Kondracke as Sam Nunn, and Pat Buchanan as Pat Buchanan. (They’d also occasionally flatter someone like Mortimer Zuckerman – whose journalism experience consisted of owning U.S. News and World Report – by treating them as if anyone cared about their opinions.)

Issue Two: Does the World Need Another Teddy White?
Germond, along with his partner Jules Witcover, wrote quadrennial doorstops on the presidential elections. I was unfortunate enough to buy and read “Blue Smoke and Mirrors,” their book on the 1988 campaign. Not only was the Bush-Dukakis race one of the dullest elections in American history, but they had to misfortune to be outclassed that cycle by one of the best election books ever, Robert Ben Cramer’s “What It Takes.” I would quote you something from “Blue Smoke and Mirrors,” but I left it in a box labeled FREE BOOKS long ago.

Issue Three: A Stinking Pile of Crap
The genius of "The McLaughlin Group" was that it was the first show to recognize that politics could be fun, especially if it was largely substance-free. No one made any pretense that anyone was being enlightened by it. In an Esquire article on the show, Eleanor Clift called it “the Super Bowl of bullshit.” McLaughlin generally acted like such a buffoon that he was eventually lampooned by Dana Carvey on “Saturday Night Live.”

Fred Barnes may have kidded himself that he was making a serious case for something or other, but Germond never fell for that. He made no bones about the fact that he was doing the show for the money. Once his daughter finished medical school, Germond quit the show. He sent John McLaughlin a fax reading simply, “Bye-bye.”

It would be nice if Germond would be remembered for one of his campaign books, or for his charmingly titled memoir "Fat Man in a Middle Seat," but heck, I haven’t even read that. He’ll be remembered as someone who held the banner for old-fashioned liberalism in a period of Reaganism and New Democrats, and as someone who made politics fun. Let’s hope he’s not remembered as someone who paved the way for the likes of "George" and "Politico."

Next week: How much longer can Mort Kondracke hold on?


* Epithet courtesy of Hunter S. Thompson.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

On the Cover

I have great affection and respect for Rolling Stone, and the people making its editorial decisions are not only friends of mine but some of the smartest and most professional people I ever had the privilege to work with. Which is why it pains me to say I think that putting the Boston bomber on the cover was an unfortunate decision. Doing an in-depth story on Tsarnaev is a great idea and very much in keeping with Rolling Stone’s historical mission. But putting his picture on the cover is a different animal.

Billy Bob Thornton once said there are two basic cultural signifiers of importance left in America: hosting Saturday Night Live and being on the cover of Rolling Stone. And it’s wrong to make this killer into a figure of cultural importance. It’s unfortunate that the magazine is sort of boxed in by its own history, and unfortunate that Tsarnaev looks like he’s in the Strokes, but there’s no getting around that. He looks like a rock star, not unlike the hundreds of other rock stars who have graced the cover. People wouldn’t be nearly as upset if they had put a middle-aged shlub like the Unabomber on the cover. 

Some people have pointed to the 1970 Charles Manson cover as justification for this one, but that doesn't make much sense. The magazine also gave five stars to the last Mick Jagger solo album, but that wouldn't justify giving five stars to the next one.

And I'm sure the story is fantastic (I haven't read it), but that's also beside the point. No one is upset about publishing the article; they're upset about the seeming glamorization of a terrorist. 

Finally, it sends a horrible message. If you’re a young person of no discernible talent yet you still want to be on the cover of Rolling Stone - which is a highly desirable goal for hundreds if not thousands of young Americans - you can just go out and kill a few people. Years ago, the magazine made the editorial decision to never again mention the name of John Lennon's killer, which is eminently sensible to me. There's no reason to accord fame to someone for committing an atrocity. The same principle ought to apply here.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

You Don't Really Care for Music, Do You?

Thanks to its overexposure on all the various amateur-singing TV shows, Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" has become one of the most covered songs of our time. But do you know who was the very first person to cover that song? It was none other than our old friend Bob Dylan, who sang it a couple of times on the earliest shows of the Never Ending Tour, in the summer of 1988. Dylan must have gotten the song off Cohen's 1984 album Various Positions, which was so prepossessing that CBS refused to release it. That was before Cohen sang it on an episode of Austin City Limits at the end of 1988 - which is where John Cale heard the song and was inspired to record it for the Cohen tribute record I'm Your Fan, which is when it really took off. That's the version Jeff Buckley heard.

That tidbit comes to you from Alan Light's The Holy and the Broken, a biography of "Hallelujah." The book, which is quote good, reminded me of nothing so much as Dave Marsh's Louie Louie: The History and Mythology of the World's Most Famous Rock'n'Roll song; Including the Full Details of Its Torture and Persecution at the Hands of the Kingsmen, J. Edgar Hoover's F.B.I., and a Cast of Millions; and Introducing, for the First Time Anywhere, the Actual Dirty Lyrics.  Both books track a song from its little-known creation by a lone genius, through the cover version that made it a worldwide sensation, and then to a version that even the writer seems a little embarrassed to have to discuss. For Light, it's a version that appeared on a Susan Boyle Christmas (!) album; for Dave Marsh, it was the performance of "Louie Louie" by a kazoo band assembled by a Philadelphia DJ for the purposes of setting a record for the largest kazoo band in history. I wonder if that record still stands. 

Monday, December 24, 2012

Silence Night

So let me see if I got this straight: Back in 1964, Simon and Garfunkel released their debut album, Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M., which contained a spare little track called "The Sounds of Silence." The record stiffed, S&G went to England for a while, and, as everyone knows, Dylan producer Tom Wilson invented the remix by overdubbing a rock band onto the original acoustic track. This version became a hit, so much so that it became the title track of the next S&G album.

Well, almost. That album was called Sounds of Silence, with no The. That's not such a huge change, but still.... Can you think of any other albums that are almost named after the hit single? I can't.

But Paul Simon (I presume) wasn't done tinkering with the title. By the time of 1972's Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits, the name of the song had been tweaked as well, and was now listed as "The Sound of Silence." It's also listed that way on the track listing for 1982's The Concert in Central Park. According to the official Simon and Garfunkel Web site, the phrase "sound of silence" is used three times in the song, while "sounds of silence" is used but once. So that would explain it.

I guess that's more or less the official title now. The single sleeve you see above is completely obsolete.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

It's a Long, Long Road

One morning last week, I was listening to an American standards station out of Garland, Texas - many of you probably were as well - when the announcer noted that the date was the anniversary of the opening of Boys Town, the home for orphans in Nebraska, back in 1917. (The town it's in is actually now known as Boys Town, Nebraska, just outside of Omaha.)

The announcer went on to describe a scene in the 1938 Spencer Tracy movie, in which a boy carried his little brother for miles to bring him to the home. When he arrived, someone - possibly even Spencer Tracy, although I haven't seen the movie - asked the boy if it was difficult to carry the boy all that way. He replied, "He ain't heavy. He's my brother."

Now, you probably recognize that as the title of a popular song recorded by the Hollies, which went to Number Seven in 1970. Did you know that phrase dated back to Boys Town? I sure didn't, although there are many things in this world that I do not know. I apologize if I'm telling you something familiar. The phrase fits in well with that 1970, Room 222, hippie generation; those people loved to sling around words like "heavy" and "brother."

Most of the Hollies' early hits has been written by Graham Nash, but he had departed by that point, to be replaced as lead singer by Terry Sylvester of the Swinging Blue Jeans. "He Ain't Heavy" was written by the team of Bobby Scott (who had earlier composed "A Taste of Honey") and Bob Russell, who had primarily written lyrics for songs used in films. Russell was no hippie; he was 55 by the time the Hollies recorded his song, and dead before it came off the charts. Elton John played piano on the track, which I find hard to believe, but there you go.

Neil Diamond took his own version to Number 20 later that same year. But it was the Hollies' version that sounded so sweet coming out of the AM radio on a cool Texas morning:

Sunday, December 2, 2012

The Babys by the Numbers

Number of Top Forty Hits for the Babys: 3

Total Number of Words in the Titles of Those Hits: 14

Average Length of Those Words, in Letters: 3.36

Length of the Longest Word in Any Babys Hit-Song Title: 5 (in alphabetical order, "Again," "Every" and "Think")