An Ode to Fame

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I remember the first time I heard David Bowie's "Fame." It was this day in 1975, the day the song hit the music stores and the air waves.

I remember it for the oddest of reasons. I was at my home in Arkansas packing for a family trip to Dallas to visit my grandmothers. It was the kind of trip my family had been making at least two or three times a year every year for as long as I could remember. It was a bit more meaningful for me this time, though. I would be attending a week–long workshop for high school journalism students at Southern Methodist University the next week, and, even before it started, I knew one of the participants — the son of some family friends. We had known each other all our lives.

Anyway, I had my radio on in my bedroom as I packed for the trip to Texas, and the D.J. announced the latest song from David Bowie. It had just been released that morning, he said, and he proceeded to play the song for his listeners. I stopped packing and sat down to listen to it. Forty years later, I still listen to it. For the last 25 years, I have tended to listen to the remix that was recorded in 1990 for the "Changesbowie" CD ...

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... but hearing the original recording brings back sweet memories of those days. John Lennon, my favorite Beatle, was credited as a co–writer of the song, but Bowie did most of the heavy lifting — lyrically speaking. In late 1974, Lennon and Bowie met and started jamming together. In January 1975, they had a recording session that produced a cover of the Beatles' "Across the Universe" and a recording of the new song, "Fame."

Bowie said it was "nasty, angry," and acknowledged that it had been written with a malicious edge thanks to the nature of Bowie's relationship with the management group with whom he had been working.

Maybe Lennon's role in the creation of the song is why I was so drawn to it, but the truth is that I wasn't aware of his connection to the song when it was prominent on the radio. I just knew that I liked it.

I guess the style was funk — although I'm not really sure that's an accurate description. It was at a time when Bowie seemed to be obsessing over soul music. At any rate, anything that was co–written by Bowie and Lennon was bound to be unique.

Apparently, a lot of people were drawn to it. It became Bowie's biggest hit in the United States to that point. The song hit #1 on Billboard's Hot 100 and went to #1 in Canada as well. It was in the Top 10 in Norway and the Netherlands.

"Fame" was running through my head when I went to the SMU campus the following Monday to begin the journalism workshop. It was playing on my radio later in the day when I was back at my grandmother's house, and I could smell the evening meal cooking in the kitchen. If I close my eyes and listen to the original recording of "Fame," I probably can tell you what was on the menu.

For awhile there in the summer of '75, "Fame" was everywhere.

I like the remix. As I said, I've been listening to that version for many years. It doesn't revive memories from 40 years ago. But the original one sure does.

And, frankly, I have been surprised that more attention hasn't been paid to this milestone anniversary, especially when you consider how influential the song was in the summer of '75. Maybe people are too busy paying attention to the 40th anniversary of "Jaws."

But not Ryan Book. Last month, Book observed, in an article for Music Times, about Bowie's epic duets, that "perhaps the most legendary performer that Bowie ever formed a duet with was also the least present for the recording.

"'Fame' doesn't attempt to hide the fact that the former Beatle is included on the single," Book wrote, "yet it was hardly advertised as a duet. Bowie just happened to meet Lennon in New York while recording for Young Americans, and the pair shacked up for a few days and jammed. One of the results was a cover of 'Across The Universe,' but more unique inspiration was found when Lennon chanted the signature 'Fame!' line while guitarist Carlos Alomar improvised a riff. Bowie seized the initiative and quickly scribed the invective–laden lyrics, and keeping Lennon on as a rhythm guitarist, tasked vocally only with chanting the single word repeatedly. The song was tossed onto Young Americans at the last moment, and Bowie gave Lennon a disproportionate amount of songwriting credit, considering that he only contributed one word. Ah, but what an important word it was."

The Meaning of 'Angie'

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"With no loving in our souls
And no money in our coats
You can't say we're satisfied
But Angie, Angie,
You can't say we never tried."

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

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My life followed an unusual pattern in 1973 — well, it was an out–of–the–ordinary pattern for me, to say the least.

That summer, my parents decided to take part in a program in which the college where my father taught was a participant.

Under this arrangement, students could enroll in summer college courses being offered at the University of Graz in Graz, Austria. My parents could receive significant discounts on airfare and accommodations if they took classes as well, which they did, but they didn't seem to take their classes seriously. It was mostly a low–cost way for the family to take a trip to Europe.

Faculty members from other schools did the same thing. I remember becoming friends that summer with a couple of boys my age whose fathers were teachers in Nebraska. I even visited them in Nebraska once after we returned to the United States.

Speaking of which, we returned to America in early to mid–August, as I recall, and my family had to pack our things quickly because my father was about to begin a four–month sabbatical in Nashville, and we had little time to get everything ready for our move.

Consequently, August of 1973 is a blur for me now. But all I have to do is hear a song that was on the radio in those days, and I am instantly transported back to that time.

And one of the most prominent songs was released on this day in 1973 — "Angie" by the Rolling Stones.

It was on the Stones' "Goats Head Soup" album. No other song on the album could compete with it as far as public popularity was concerned. "Angie" raced to the top of the Billboard charts; "Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)," its closest competition from the album, made it to #15 the following year.

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I remember at the time there was considerable speculation about the subject of the song. Was it about David Bowie's first wife, whose name was Angela? Was it about actress Angie Dickinson? Or was it about bandmate Keith Richards' newborn daughter (whose name was Dandelion Angela)?

(Personally, whenever I heard "Angie," I thought of a beautiful classmate of mine whose name was Angela — and who inspired my earliest adolescent fantasies. Matter of fact, I still think of her when I hear it — and I have seen a few recent pictures of her on Facebook. She's still capable of inspiring fantasies — or song lyrics.)

Richards wrote nearly all of the song, and he said it was about heroin and his attempts to stop using it.

Kind of a reverse twist on the Beatles' "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" explanation, huh? In case you aren't familiar with it, speculation held that that title was a play on the abbreviation LSD, and it was a drug–inspired song.

John Lennon popped that balloon, though, by explaining that the title came from a piece of artwork done by his young son at school.

That's the way the '60s and early '70s were, though. Everyone was looking for hidden meanings in everything — and the speculation was almost always wrong. (That observation never fails to remind me of a line that George Carlin used when doing his disc jockey act — "In a few minutes, we'll be listening to the new John Lennon single, which, if you play it backwards at slow speed, it screws up your needle ...")

I suppose, though, like most songs, "Angie" means whatever the listener thinks it means.

Personally, I never attached any special meaning to "Angie," other than a little harmless fantasizing about my classmate Angela, but I had a friend in college who always thought of her mother when she heard it (she thought of her father, a truck driver, whenever she heard Elton John's "Rocket Man").

To each his own, I guess.

Hey Good Lookin' Turns 60

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About a year and a half before his still–mysterious death at the age of 29, country music legend Hank Williams released one of his final #1 hits — "Hey Good Lookin'."

Hank was on a roll at that point in his life. He'd had a single #1 hit between 1947 and 1949, but, in 1950, he seemed to explode on the charts with three #1 hits — and he kept that hot streak going the following year, starting with "Cold, Cold Heart" — and he nearly made it three #1 hits in a row with "Howlin' at the Moon," which reached #3.

You could probably recite a list of all the #1 hits Williams had in his brief but explosive career (as well as after his death), and any one of them could almost be said to be the definitive Williams song.

His style could be bluesy and earthy, and it could be playful and lively. I always felt "Hey Good Lookin' " touched on it all.

Oh, I guess you could say the same thing about songs like "Jambalaya" or "Settin' the Woods on Fire" — or several other Williams standards. For that matter, "Howlin' at the Moon" had the same sense of whimsy as "Hey Good Lookin'," but it isn't as well remembered, even though it was released at about the same time.

In the last year of his life, Williams had five songs that made it at least to #2 on the charts — and two of them reached the top. One of those songs was "Jambalaya" (which was released more than a year after "Hey Good Lookin' ") and the other, ironically, was called "I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive."

The song was intended to be humorous, as you can probably tell from the title. It was still climbing the charts when Williams died on the first day of 1953 — and took on considerably deeper meaning after that.

But, in June 1951, that was still in the future.

Sixty years ago, Williams was crooning to someone who was good lookin' and wonderin' what she had cookin'.

"How's about cookin' somethin' up with me?"

It has been covered by countless performers over the years, but, half a century after it was released, Williams' version was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.

That's staying power.

The Music of Our Lives

I came across a website that I thought I would share with you.

On this website, you can find out what was the #1 Billboard song on any date in history — the day you were born, the day your spouse or your child(ren) were born, the day you graduated from high school or college, the day you got married, the day someone close to you died.

I found, for example, that the #1 song on the day that I was born was "Mack the Knife" by Bobby Darin.

The top song on the day my brother was born was "Telstar" by The Tornados.

And, out of curiosity, I checked to see what the top song was the day I received my master's degree. It was "Black or White" by Michael Jackson.

Try it out. Pick a random date, or pick one that has special significance for you.