Honestly, what the hell were they thinking? This could go under the Simple 70s Games tag, as it's about as simple as it gets, you have a bunch of balls on sticks, and move them around the board and try to hit as many opponents balls as possible.
But to be serious, we can't tag it that way. It's a full-on question mark of a game made entirely out of what-the-effery, designed to be useless within five days of play as balls fly off the sticks and get lost in the gap in the sofa. If you enjoyed playing this as a kid, I doff my cap to you, but there was no way it could keep me entertained for more than a rainy afternoon.
Yes, it's Saturday night, which means here on Made In The 70s we're getting our disco on. Every Saturday night we'll feature one or two forgotten dancefloor classics. This week, it's Patrick Hernandez and Boney M.
This is by no means a list of 70s songs that suck, or even a "Worst Songs Of the 70s" list, simply a list of songs that we wish no one had released for some reason or another. Usually it's because it has turned us against something that we would otherwise have liked, or simply scarred our childhood so much, we either remember exactly where we were when we first heard it, or we've erased the incident completely from our memory with nothing but scotch and drugs. So, starting at 10, here's your Pick Of The Pops countdown...
10. Judy Collins: Send In the Clowns
That's right, we're going there. To be perfectly honest, this is a really great song that no one under Heaven has yet been able to do justice. Ethel Merman's version can restart flatlined hearts, Shirley Bassey's version can pop car tires, but Judy Collins' version is so bland and banal that it doesn't just encourage clowns to start interpretative dancing, it's forcing them to do it outside of their own free will. Send In The Clowns is also probably the primary cause of coulrophobia (it's the 21st Century! Google it!) in those of us from the age of 25-38.
I can't say too much about this one as I had to stop it 35 seconds into the song, it really does make me think of dark winter days rolling naked down hill after hill of broken glass. Were this a real Top Ten, rather than just a list, this would probably be number 1. Press play above, force your eyes open with matchsticks, and dream of what luxurious lives are led in Guantanamo Bay.
It's so long ago now that it's hard to remember that this song was actually about a boy's love for his pet rat, Ben, for the movie of the same title. Ben is the sequel to the 1971 horror movie Willard, about a man who trains his pet rat Socrates to enact his vengeance, but the lone rat soon becomes just one of a team of other trained rats lead by the bigger and more intelligent Ben. Socrates eventually turns on his master and kills him, and all the super-intelligent rats escape. In Ben, a boy takes Ben to be his pet, and Ben's awesome powers protect him from bullies, but eventually Ben starts to take control and the rest of the rats start killing people and the police have to come in and contain the swarm. Ben gets away, but unfortunately does not get as far as a third movie, which would have made a wicked cute rats destroy mankind to childish love songs trilogy. So, yeah. Despite being nominated for an Oscar for Best Original Song in 1972, this song bears absolutely no resemblance to the source material it's based on.
I never saw the movie that this song comes from, but for those who did, I'm truly, deeply, sorry. I did, however, see the trailer for it when I went to see Herbie Goes To Monte Carlo for some kids birthday, which was essentially this 4 minute version from the film intercut with other scenes from the movie. Needless to say, to this day, I have yet to subject myself to it. the only thing I can be happy for, in my own selfish way, is that we in the UK got the Sex Pistols in 1977, while you poor buggers in the US had two full months of this insipid dross as number one. Actually, while you were forced to hear that everywhere, we had four number ones which could could be considered either better or worse, depending on your tastes:-
David Soul: Silver Lady - A beautiful song sung by a beautiful man
Baccara: Yes Sir, I Can Boogie - The kind of Eurodisco that turns normal people into serial killers
ABBA: The Name Of The Game - Arguably the greatest ABBA song of all time
Paul McCartney & Wings: Mull Of Kintyre - My family anthem, apparently.
Then Mull of Kintyre proceded to wreak holy vengeance upon us Brits by staying there at number 1 for 9 weeks. 9 full weeks of bagpipe solos. Thinks about it. What makes it worse is that my sister actually bought the damn thing. She's responsible.
But anyway, yes. You Light Up My Life should never have been released.
It's 1976, and this is my first real Eurovision Song Contest. We in Britain realized that if we ever wanted to win, we needed a singing group that reminded everyone of ABBA, and had a catchy dance gimmick. In 76, Brotherhood of Man stuck their thumbs behind their oversized belt buckles and bounced their hips in a non-sexual circular motion (in 81, Bucks Fizz did the same thing only the two girls ripped their skirts off to reveal slightly shorter skirts). Surprisingly, it worked, and BoM won that year. Save Your Kisses For Me was also the biggest selling single in the UK that year. Outside of the Euro-sphere, however, you have probably never been subjected to this strange love song with the 'surprise' Jackson-Approved ending, so I'm including here just for you. Bear in mind, this was the first dance routine I ever learned, and I was trotted out to perform it just about every time it came on at weddings, parties and wakes all throughout the later 70s. Thank God, no one remembers it now.
Okay, maybe next time it's played, you'll get me to do it one more time, just for old time's sake.
What to listen to instead: Brotherhood of Man: Figaro - Much more fun, and you feel less icky for enjoying it.
5. Styx: Babe
In just over 4 minutes, Styx invent the Power Ballad, and ruin pretty much any enjoyment I can get out of a regular rock album for the whole of the 80s. Every rock band has to have their version of Babe in their otherwise excellent album somewhere. I'm left crying in the closet as child, wondering what the hell I've spent my pocket money on. This one song is directly responsible for Bryan Adams' career. Well, that and the Canadian Content laws that virtually guarantee anyone with a record contract airtime. Screw you, Dennis De Young. Your band sucks. Thanks for nothing!
What to listen to instead: Typically Tropical: Barbados - Because despite the knowledge that it's sung by a white guy in an overtly racist Caribbean accent, it still totally erases my memory of that shite song above. Ah... Bliss...
4. Ray Stevens: Everything Is Beautiful
Quite simply, there's nothing wrong with this song. But he sold it to an advertising company, who used to sell wood sealant. So, yeah, whenever I hear it now, I do hear "Everything is beautiful, in it's own way... Ronseal keeps wood beautiful, beauty that will stay!" Nice way to remember a happy song about God and kids and stuff, right?
What to listen to instead: David Dundas: Jeans On - The proper way to sell your song out to advertisers. At least jeans are cool...
3. Maureen McGovern: Can You Read My Mind?
Ignore the weird karaoke-club video that goes with this. Astute readers will realize that this is the love theme from 1978's Superman. It's a lovely, almost haunting piece until OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE THEY DONE! Yep, they've taken that crap poem Lois Lane has going through her head as she flies with Superman, definitely the lamest part of an otherwise awesome movie, and set it to music. I don't know what's worse, the original scene with the poem, or the sung version with the dolphins and orcas. Either way, I need to scrub my brain with a Brillo pad. Nurse!
What to listen to instead: John Williams: Cavatina - Harrowing movie, beautiful piece of music, no stupid lyrics.
2. The Bellamy Brothers: If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body Would You Hold It Against Me?
This song has, as it's title, such a ridiculous pick-up line, that I can't even use it in an ironic fashion. Plus, it's terrible, weak, and features far too much pedal-steel slide guitar. The word here, though really is weak. They spend the whole time asking if they can say this or call her that. It's the most passive-aggressive love song ever written. You can tell they're from Florida. These two guys really need to grow a pair... each this time.
What to listen to instead: The Bellamy Brothers: Let Your Love Flow - It's like a completely separate group, intelligent, poppy, and doesn't sound like something Sondra Locke would sing in one of those Any Which Way But Loose movies...
1. Manhattan Transfer: Chanson D'Amour
Ah the good old days of Gay Paris, sipping champagne in the cafe, Piaf reverberating from the 78rpm wind-up record player, Francois capitulating to the Nazis, zut alors! Les temps c'est fantastique! Oui, c'est vrai. Fantastique, indeed.
Someone out there was desperately trying to forget that it was 1977 and that punk was around the corner. Leo Sayer's When I Need You was number the week before, ABBA's Knowing Me Knowing You came after, but for three weeks the UK gave itself over to America's jazz quartet Manhattan Transfer, who wanted to sing us in Franglais a love song about how they think of love songs every time they see you, or every time they hear a Thompson Submachinegun go 'rat-tat-tat-tat-ta!" or something like that. So, yeah, it's either a slow plodding paean to a 1930s love affair, or it's an overlong cpdewrod for a French resistance operation. Take your pick...
What to listen to instead: Blondie: Denis - A much finer example of a song with a bit of French in it. And a video much more pleasant to the eye, too.
You're being chased through the woods by a man-sized fuzzy blue lion, who sings psychedelic Beatles songs at you while you run. An orange monkey, a tiger with an eyepatch, and a green dog wearing a big brown hat capture you in a massive net, then implore the lion, whose name is Rory, to read aloud a story to you. If you've never woken up from either this particular nightmare in a pool of sweat, or anything like it, you probably didn't grow up in the late 60s to early 70s, and completely missed out on the weekly (sometimes even daily) man-sized furry freakshows that were a mainstay of children's television. You think you had it hard with the Teletubbies, and thought that baby in the sun thing was trippy... You haven't seen what happens when the Teletubbies and the Wiggles get together and get laid while on horse tranquilizers...
Animal Kwackers sing Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds
It's a pretty simple rendition, actually, also found on their Animal Kwackers LP which I had as a child. Bongo, Rory, Twang and Boots play a happy melody written by the greatest rock and roll band ever in the world, and it just happens to be about being on LSD. I utterly loved this when I was a kid, and no amount of Just Say No campaigns later on as a teenager could remove the glory that was Animal Kwackers telling me to drop acid. None. So the good news is that when I finally do, I may actually be able to understand:
H. R. Pufnstuf
Technically this, and the following group of six-foot, two-legged monsters, were really made in the 60s, but their shows ran into the 70s and were on continual rerun throughout my decade. I never got to see the series of H. R. Pufnstuf, but did see the movie, and boy, between this, Hanna Barbera's version of Alice In Wonderland (or What's A Nice Kid Like You Doing In A Place Like This?), and The Phantom Tollbooth, you never actually have to say no to drugs. It's all right there, on the screen, man!
Anyhoo. Pufnstuf's name's a complete give away. He lives on Living Island, where, you know, wow, everything's alive, man, he calls everyone dude, dude. His friend Jimmy, the only true human on the show, is transported there by a magical talking flute. Not, you know, James Galway's magical golden flute, but one that talks, man. It's all, you know, wow, man... etc.
Not this flute, the one that TALKS!
Also notice that the title sequence is one minute forty-nine seconds. That's just for you guys at the back who zoned out halfway through the last show and couldn't remember what the hell it was about, or had some fight about 'bogarting' or somesuch.
The Banana Splits
There ain't much that can be said about this wacky foursome that hasn't been said before. Fleegle, Bingo, Drooper and Snorky are the godfathers of six-foot psychedelic critterdom. (Fun Banana Splits fact: All the outside scenes in series one were filmed at Six Flags Over Texas theme park, by future director of Superman, Richard Donner.) Essentially The Banana Splits, a combine of the talents from Hanna Barbera and Sid & Marty Krofft who also created Pufnstuf, was a live-action cartoon. It used all the well-known Hanna Barbera sound effects and sight gags, and what's best is that there's absolutely no attempt to make the character's mouths move. So there's a lot of talking by creatures who grin like stoners or run around with their tongues sticking out like wasted junkies. So, sit back and enjoy The Banana Splits in all their wonderfully wacky-backy glory.
Now, thanks to the internet, these guys would be considered the godfathers of furrydom and I'm surprised there isn't some ultra-not-actually-sexy slash-fic written about them by basement bound 37 year-olds.
You know... Thinking about it... That doesn't sound like a bad idea at all... Time to start flexing those slash-fingers!
For those who are starting already to stockpile their canned foods and water bottles, duct tape, white paint and Armalites for the Rapture/2012/Big Terror Attack, you are not alone. Nor have you ever been. There are records in history of a Millennium cult that thought Jesus was going to save us in 1000AD, and ever since then (and, I'm sure before even that) people have truly believed that for some reason The End Of The World Is Nigh.
30 years ago, in 1978, things were no different. Along with the Jonestown Mass Suicides of Guyana in November, there was another group a little closer to home (well, at least closer to where I live now, anyway) who, in December of 1978, were also preparing themselves for the end of the world - in 1984.
... members of a religious sect were picketing in support of their leader, who was being sought by the FBI on charges of federal income tax invasion.
According to the story, which ran as a two-part front-page series, the man claimed to be the prophet Jeremiah reincarnated and had publicly admitted that he hadn’t paid his income taxes since 1948.
Many of his followers, numbering 150 to 200 in South Jersey, also refused to pay federal taxes because they wanted “no part of a system bent on destruction of the human race.”
Even as their leader hid from the feds, they met on Tuesday nights in McKee City, studying the Bible and preparing to follow him into the mountains to wait out the effects of a nuclear war that was going to destroy two-thirds of the world’s population in 1984.
If there's a lesson to learned from late 1978 for all you conspiracy theorists, cultists and dominionists out there... It's that you may possibly be right, but more likely than not, you are very, very wrong.
If you are living in 1978, here's a handy 3-step guide on how to spot a cultist, versus your typical stuck in 1972 hippy.
If your brother lives in a commune - he's a hippy. If he lives on a compound - he's a cultist.
If your sister smokes a ton of weed then passes out on your couch - she's a hippy. If she drinks Kool-Aid, writes a cryptic pseudo-socialistic suicide note on the back of matchbook, then keels over dead - cultist.
If your best friend joins a new group of yogic flyers held by a guru in Mike's house every Tuesday night - hippy. If your best friend joins a new group by taking a psych test after being lured into a shop window on Charing Cross Road - scary, scary, scary cultist. Rescue your friend immediately, lest he end up as Tom Cruise's 40 year old manservant.
So, before the aliens ask you to take them to your leader and all you can point to is a large man called Bubba, probably a good idea to keep paying your taxes, and try not to poison all your followers in a Revolutionary Suicide pact. Not too much to ask, is it?
I've come to the conclusion that "Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep" is the most fun song about child abandonment ever written.
Must find a link to this catchy, twee, ominous marvel as soon as I get back.
Oh, here it is... Middle Of The Road - Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep (1971)
Of course, it's not the original version. There's a slightly more maudlin, yet still upbeat and strident version from 1970, by the song's writer, Lally Stott, here:
This is actually the version I heard yesterday which made me think of the old childish, stomping crowd pleaser that I grew up on dancing to at weddings and jubilees and such. This would inevitably be followed by Slade's Mama Weer All Crazee Now (1972). Not as scary, but just as damn catchy.
Now, where's that one? Oh, here! Even better, a non-lip-synched performance! Groovy!
Because there is already a "That 70's Blog", which has one entry and was last updated in 2005, welcome to Made in the 70's, a little blog about that long overlooked era of (mostly American) culture that made me the person I am right now. I was born in 1971, and missed much of the early 70's due to being very small and not very popular, so this is as much a journey for me as it is a repository for stuff and ideas that were Made in the 70's. Hope you like it. - Ridski.
NEW FEATURE: Feeling a little competitive? Check out the bottom of the page in the central section. We've added the classic 70s game Connect 4 to the site. Play against the computer or player vs. player (not against online players, unfortunately). It's so groovy!
