I’ve heard it said that it isn’t hard to write a hit song. It’s nearly impossible, but it’s not hard.
There are certain songs that transcend the appellation: hit, that become: standards. People crawl over each other trying to perform them and enjoy the popularity juice that’s obviously in them. They might achieve an original take on these warhorses, but the meat is the song, and the salt is the delivery. These songs are occasionally composed by one-hit wonders, but that’s pretty rare in my experience. It’s usually artists who have a string of hits, some of which get their head way above top 40 ocean and make it up into the standards cloud.
Kris Kristofferson wrote several songs that became standards. He wrote a bunch more that were popular in their own right. I think a solid majority of the population of the United States has recorded For the Good Times at this point. You can hear fat Elvis try his hand at it, or senescent Sinatra mumble it if you like. Ray Price had a number one hit with it, and must have thought he’d stubbed his toe on a golden boulder. Perry Como de-boned it for weak musical teeth, and spent half a year on the British charts with it. Karaoke tapes have gone woolly dragging its carcass over magnetic heads over and over.
I recall an Irishism that states that you’re not dead until no one utters your name anymore. Let’s expand it to include uttering your lyrics.
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Let’s not forget Kris, Janis, Me and Bobby McGee.
Let’s not forget Kris, Willie, Johnny, and Waylon.
Let’s go to, lookin’ back, Texas.
Curiously enough, my favorite cover version of “Me and Bobbie McGee” is Gordon Lightfoot’s from the album “Sit Down Young Stranger”.
Oh dear!
Dear Sippican–this is just not enough!! Please say more about This man with the perfectly horrible voice, blue eyes, and . . .
Please, please bring back a clear memory of all of those times during which he reached his peak professionally. Looking back they never seemed, nor ever were, as bad as the place we are at now. But he is the reference our small generation had to try to explain what we had experienced but knew nothing about.
For a time reference: my first husband was in Viet Nam at the same time KK was flying over-1960-1964. Those years when none of us knew there was a Viet Nam. Our government never told us– never told us that our boys and men were in a war zone. My ex was based in Japan and frequently flown over to Nam on “top secret duty” to repair our aircraft that had been shot at by “communists” . When I hear KK I remember who we were then–strong, confused, loyal. Later we would become that generation torn between the “dirty hippies” and our faithful brothers and husbands.
When I hear Kristofferson’s voice I will always remember “the light”. That late afternoon silver light on the hill in San Francisco. It is neither bright nor dirty. That light lit up all those clean young men in their new uniforms. All those young men doing their last night home in “the city” before eagerly “shipping out in the morning”.
I know that Kristofferson’s song–“Sunday Morning Coming Down”– was written for so many of our boys after they came home. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbqGWTxwZEA
But, as a woman I prefer to remember the songwriter for this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCgnbRWVvU8.
Footnote: Governments and their experts can make big mistakes. One of those “insights” was the theory that it was best to get our soldiers back into civilian life ASAP.
Our little group of newly marrieds used to meet at the Pizza Parlor on Saturday nights. One by one those who did not have kids, or who were not in college, were “called up”. We kept up the Saturday night tradition because it helped us to stay connected and to continue. We kept track of “our guys” by sharing news on Saturday night.
Billy was one of “our guys”. He had those great piercing blue eyes. A few days before his one year of Viet Nam service was complete, Billy carried his dead friend on his shoulder into the air base. He tried to get in line for the flight home. SEVENTY TWO HOURS LATER–he had been flown from Viet Nam to Oakland air base, where his wife picked him up and brought him to the pizza parlor–to pick up life.
The government’s “new plan” was to get our boys back home and back into their old life right away. No de briefing. No downtime. No re-entry assistance. NOTHING. I will never forget those blue eyes when they came back in to the pizza parlor that night. BIlly ended up in the mental hospital a few months later. I never knew what happened after that, but I do know that was the first time I realized that maybe “the experts” weren’t as smart as we had been taught.
Kris Kristofferson was one of us.
Dear Sippican:
I tried to put in paragraphs in my post about Kristofferson and my generation, but I could not make the paragraphs stay in place–any suggestions?
Also, I wanted to say that “Sunday morning coming down” was about so many of our men after they came home. They were the generation of Viet Nam vets who never really recovered–that group that been sent home immediately.
I will admit to being in minority of those who have never recorded a version of “For the Good Times”.
Of course, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. But that doesn’t seem to stop some people.