Allan Sherman’s gift for parody songs dates back well before his commercial success in the 1960s. As a struggling comedy writer in New York he sang parody songs at parties, and as the successful creator and producer of the television game show I’ve Got a Secret, his parodies became well-known within the industry. He even recorded a single (“Jake’s Song†b/w “A Satchel and a Seckâ€) – a flop – in 1951. He tried again in the mid-50s with a Jewish-humor translation of My Fair Lady (to be called “Fairfax Lady,†after the Jewish neighborhood of Los Angeles), but failing to gain the original composer’s permission, the project was shelved. It wasn’t until several years later, after a move to Los Angeles, that his continuing party appearances garnered famous fans who led him to a composer, Lou Busch, and a recording contract with Warner brothers.
Sherman recorded this debut album in 1962 in front of a hand-picked studio audience, and with their laughter supplying the rocket fuel, the album, and it’s hit single “Sarah Jackman†(to the tune of Frerer Jacques), crossed over from the borscht belt audience to nationwide acclaim. The keys to Sherman’s success are many. His lyrics are both clever and catchy, eliciting spontaneous mid-song applause and sticking memorable lines (“He was trampling through the warehouse / where the drapes of Roth are stored†sung to the tune of the “Battle Hymn of the Republicâ€) in the listener’s ears. His comedic timing, augmented by terrific musical accompaniment, is perfectly tuned to his intimate studio gatherings, and the seriousness of Busch’s arrangements neatly emphasizes the silliness of Sherman’s words. His humor is decidedly Jewish, even old-timey, but exalting an old-time tailor and using an accent to rhyme “fourth†with “cloth†is funny whether or not you’re of the tribe.
A Joan Jett hagiography masquerading as a Runaways biopic
Perhaps its simply ironic justice that a group so thoroughly abused by their managers, the press and each other would, in the ostensible retelling of their story, be so thoroughly abused by their filmmaker and two of their members. The most obvious clue to the on-going animosity between the band members is that bassist Jackie Fox is spitefully renamed in film as the fictional “Robin.†This follows latter-day bassist Victory Tischler Blue being denied the use of original Runaways studio recordings for her documentary Edgeplay: A Film About the Runaways. Add to that the near complete absence of dialog for guitarist Lita Ford and drummer Sandy West in this “biopic,†and you have a film that posits the Runaways as a springboard for Joan Jett’s solo stardom. Even vocalist Cherie Currie, upon whose biography this script is ostensibly based, has her story short-changed in the telling.
The screenplay, credited to first-time feature director Floria Sigismondi, is a mess. The motivations and timeline are muddled, and the band’s story isn’t given any context. Was the band famous or only infamous? What led up to Cherie quitting the band? What happened to Lita and Sandy after The Runaways (or, for that matter, during their time in the Runaways)? The action and plot points often feel made up, rather than based on actual people and events. Worse, the characters’ unending moroseness suggests there wasn’t a moment of joy in the Runaways’ career, and it remains unclear why any of the girls stayed involved in the band. The pacing is tortoise-like and the film’s modern style fails to capture the mood of the times. The dialog and direction often reduce the ‘70s rock milieu to trite shorthand and communicate little feel for the period. The fictional Foxes, in which Currie was featured alongside Jodie Foster in 1980, is a better window into the hard partying hopelessness of late-70s Los Angeles.
Were the script and direction the only weak link, the film’s leads might still have been entertaining, but they’re out of their depth. Kristen Stewart shows little conviction as the firebrand Joan Jett. Dakota Fanning is no better, showing little charisma, sex appeal or rebel spirit, and often looks scared of her role rather than scared within it as an acted emotion. The real-life Currie is compelling and authoritative in the DVD’s making-of documentary, showing Fanning’s characterization to be docile and lost in comparison. The film would have been better cast without movie stars, so as to allow the actual band members’ characters to take center stage. Michael Shannon provides a bravura performance as Kim Fowley, but Sigismondi gives him only one note to play, and his character quickly dissolves into repetition. The script fails to provide any of the characters dramatic arcs – no one is transformed, and when Currie declares that she wants her life back, the viewer is left to wonder why she wants to return to a life that was portrayed as being terrible to begin with.
The historical liberties and omissions are numerous, including the fictionalized introduction of Currie’s infamous corset on the band’s 1977 tour of Japan. Currie’s been widely quoted as having purchased the item in Los Angeles and she can seen wearing it in a 1976 promotional video of “Cherry Bomb.â€Â More damaging to the film’s credibility, the transformational sexual assault that Currie details in her autobiography is barely alluded to. Jackie Fox’s departure is necessarily skipped, since the bassist was skipped altogether as a character in the film, and the film’s end skips past the Runaways initial post-group activities, including Currie’s solo album, her album (and hit single) with sister Marie, Joan Jett’s trip to the UK, her work with Sex Pistols Paul Cook and Steve Jones, the recording of her 1980 eponymous debut, and Lita Ford’s emergence as a metal guitar goddess. Instead, the film rushes to Jett’s canonization as a solo superstar.
A reflective Sinatra records his last perfect solo album
Frank Sinatra was hitting yet another career peak as the British Invasion stormed the popular music charts in the mid-60s. But such was his artistic force that the period saw the Chairman’s continued success on both the album and singles charts, successfully battling the storm unleashed by the Beatles and their compatriots. In 1965, with his 50th birthday looming, Sinatra took stock at mid-life and recorded thirteen songs with arranger Gordon Jenkins. Their choices delicately balanced a nostalgic look at the successes of youth, poignant thoughts on the limitations brought on by age, and optimistic visions of what time was still left to live. Sinatra had never before sounded this personally vulnerable, and the realization of his own mortality comes across like a genuine first thought.
The swagger of Sinatra’s recent swing albums gave way in this set to the sort of melancholy he’d explored with Jenkins on 1957’s brilliant Where Are You? and 1959’s No One Cares. Though Nelson Riddle is usually hailed as Sinatra’s most sympathetic arranger, Jenkins’ charts, both in 1957 and in 1965, winningly back Sinatra with lush strings that frame the singer exquisitely. In the thirty years since Sinatra broke into music as a boy singer, he’d proved himself America’s greatest interpretive vocalist, and now, in the approach to his golden years, he firmly established himself as the elder statesman of pop music. He’d record some good albums throughout the rest of the 1960s, but never again would he make such an arresting, innovative and deeply personal artistic statement.
The songs he picked for this album don’t fight the notion of aging, but neither do they succumb to its frailties. The title track, recorded five weeks after the rest of the album, opens the set with the stark realization of passing years, but “How Old Am I†opts to see the changes of age as maturity rather than weaknesses, and exults the power of love to keep one vital. Sinatra and Jenkins gathered “top of your game songs†and performed them with a presence and knowingness that was, particularly among Sinatra’s rich catalog of stellar recordings, astounding. Sinatra’s empty nest – his three children were grown and he was currently single – is heard in Jimmy Van Heusen and Sammy Cahn’s “It Gets Lonely Early,†but even here the lyric is both happily nostalgic and optimistically forward looking.
Stellar box set of four documentaries and a bonus disc
Reelin’ in the Years’ five-DVD set includes excellent documentaries on Dusty Springfield, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Herman’s Hermits and the Small Faces, which are also available individually. Each film is packed with full-length performances (some live, some lip-synched for TV) and interview footage with the principles and other key personnel. Though all four documentaries are worth seeing, the chapters on the Small Faces and Herman’s Hermits are particularly fine. In both of these episodes the filmmakers were able to get hold of a deeper vein of period material, and with the Small Faces relatively unknown in the U.S. and the Hermits known only as non-threatening hit makers, the stories behind the music are particularly interesting.
Second-helping of early ‘60s musical parody
