By Tobin Barnes Okay, time once again to open the door to the confessional and get down on the kneeler.
This is nothing new.
As you know, I’ve bloodied myself in print many times before. I’m not proud.
For example, I’ve admitted I’m not much fun in a large social gathering, like a wedding, or for that matter, a funeral--kind of a mope, actually. That’s right, I’m dull in a group of six or more. I don’t know, or want to know, how to mix. You know, flit from one conversation to the next. Mingle, in other words. Tell someone I’ll be right back when I have no such intention.
Small talk just isn’t my bag.
My old man could talk the ears off a rabbit, while I’m the rabbit who’ll run and hide when faced with the niceties of such conversational yada-yada.
And just recently, I’ve admitted to at times being a zombie. Uh huh, I’ll zone out and let time pass without any vestige of mental presence. I’ve found it almost pleasant to be there but not there. Perhaps you’ve experienced my undead state and wondered where I was. Sorry. See you when things get more interesting.
Well, as damning as those and other admissions are, here comes my lastest shocker.
Ready? Here goes. It isn’t pretty.
I love the song “Sugar, Sugar.”
"Oh....Honey, Honey. You are my candy girl, and you got me wanting you."
See, I can’t help myself. And admit it. You like that stupid little ditty, too, don’t you?
Confessing your addiction is the most important of the twelve steps. Except, of course, you’ll never recover from this one.
It’s infectious to the point of being sinister. Once the song is planted in your brain, it robs you of your ability to think higher level thoughts, like what’s for supper.
I’ve loved “Sugar, Sugar” from the first time I heard it back when I was in high school. According to Songfacts.com, it was the number one single for 1969, beating out The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, you name them.
I’ve heard it maybe fourteen hundred times since, and I still haven’t gotten tired of it. It’s evil I tell you. It’s what they call a guilty pleasure. And...oh, do I feel guilty.
Here I am, a guy who can make sense out of some of the most arcane lines in Shakespeare. I can read Paradise Lost and pretty much know what Milton’s talking about. And then I’ve got lines like, “When I kissed you girl, I knew how sweet a kiss could be” running in my head, like some kind of mold rot.”
What’s wrong with this picture?
Even when we were back in high school, we called this kind of music “bubble gum.” We were oftentimes contemptuous of it. But all the time, I secretly liked such bubble gum songs as “Sugar, Sugar,” “Dizzy” and “Hooray for Hazel” by Tommy Roe, and the saccharine, juvenile “Indian Giver” by the 1910 Fruitgum Company, for crying out loud.
Now some bubble gum was fairly respectable, such as “Build Me Up Buttercup,” but nevertheless, you could hardly admit you were a big fan of The Foundations.
And The Archies? God forbid!
After all, The Archies were a prefabricated invention from the Archie comic book series and Saturday morning program. (Remember Archie, Jughead, Veronica and Betty? I’m afraid I do.)
So this was a fictional band made up of studio musicians.
The Archies recorded “Sugar, Sugar” after The Monkees, another prefab band, rejected it, according to Wikipedia. Ray Stevens, the comedic singer who gave us the semi-classic “Gitarzan,” was the talent who supplied those nifty hand claps in “Sugar, Sugar.”
Wikipedia reports that the pedigree of the song doesn’t stop there. It was later covered by Wilson Pickett, Tom Jones, Ike & Tina Turner, Bob Marley & The Wailers (the reggae version?), and The Germs, among others.
Evidently, there’s no accounting for taste.
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