round 2
(1) debby boone, “you light up my life”
STOPPED
(9) CW MCCALL, “CONVOY”
115-78
AND WILL PLAY IN THE SWEET 16
Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the aggregate of the poll below and the @marchxness twitter poll. Polls closed @ 9am Arizona time on March 12.
The Emptiest of Vessels: Linda Michel-Cassidy on “you light up my life”
There is a bounty of reasons to dislike the pop song, "You Light Up My Life" as sung by Debby Boone. First, is the story behind Boone coming to record the song. Second, we have its insipid lyrics. Third, and probably least relevant, is that so many people loved and continue to love this pablum and the dead-eyed performance thereof. I am forever suspicious of mass appeal. Fourth, and not at all relevant, is that it reminds me of early high school.
In 1977, Debbie Boone covered "You Light up My Life," which was originally written by Joe Brooks for the movie of the same name, which Brooks also wrote and produced. In You Light up My Life (follow closely, friends) the actress Didi Conn lip-syncs over a recording made by Kasey Cisyk, a classically trained musician and singer. The Conn character is screwed over multiple times, most notably by her producer/occasional lay when she is cast and then replaced by what is essentially a blonde stock character. She is then told her recording of the song will be dubbed into the movie for which she had been cast. Coincidently, Brooks removed Cisyk's name from the credits after she rebuffed his advances, listing it as "cast recording." Cizyk had to sue Brooks for payment for her work. Lots going on here.
The Boone version uses the same instrumental track as the Cisyk one, rendering the former just very fancy karaoke. Supposedly, Boone was chosen because Brooks thought she had a similar vocal style, and Boone did report that he told her to sound as similar to Cisyk as possible. The version sung by Boone, released in August of 1977, was a huge success, landing ten weeks at #1 on Billboard, a record at that time. She won a Grammy (Best New Artist of the Year), American Music Award (Favorite Rock/Pop), and a People’s Choice Favorite New Song Award (tied with “Boogie Nights” by Heatwave). Brooks won the Academy Award for Best Original Song (1978), a Grammy for Song of the Year (tied with "Evergreen" from A Star is Born), and the Golden Globe award for Best Original song (1978), among others.
Before getting any further, let's break this down. The least horrible feature, although not my taste, is the music. Since I have no music training and am possibly tone deaf, all I'll say about that is, it is of stuck-in-your-head quality. I do feel like I can comment on the lyrics, which are bland at best. Still, it's up to the singer to interpret them, or imbue them with something. Anything.
So many nights I'd sit by my window
Waiting for someone to sing me his song
So many dreams I kept deep inside me
Alone in the dark but now you've come along
When interviewed, Boone stated that the “him” of the song was God, in effect claiming that the song was spiritual. This was disputed by the songwriter, Brooks. This I can believe, given his multiple indictments for forceable rape, and pretty much everything ever written about him. If nothing else, this proves that the lyrics are an empty container, awaiting meaning.
And you light up my life
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days and fill my nights with song
I consulted with a friend, a Unitarian from the Midwest, who confirmed that the song was sung in church back in the day, because it was “good to do the hand signals to,” meaning, I think, some aberration of American Sign Language. When Boone performed the song at the 1978 Oscars, there were children signing along with her. The problem is, it turned out that they were basically miming gibberish, as they were recruited from a regular elementary school, and not the John Tracy Clinic for the Deaf, as Bob Hope had announced. The Academy's response was that they never specifically stated the children were deaf.
Rollin' at sea, adrift on the water
Could it be finally I'm turnin' for home?
Boone’s version became a gold mine. I, like everyone else at the time, conflated the song with the movie with the two different singers with Conn's convincing lip sync. I recall not hating the movie, and maybe even liking it. I tracked down a Mexican bootleg compilation of eight movies purportedly about love, each more obscure than the other. When it arrived many weeks later, mangled and covered with an exotic array of stamps, I hunkered down to watch, if for no other reason than to test my memory. My London-bred husband was only vaguely aware of this piece of Americana, so I forced him to watch it as well. At the very time Boone’s version of the title song was lording it over the US charts, he was a dapper mod popping around Camden Town in the pointiest of creepers, smoking without recourse, and taking the tube to see Madness and The Specials. Meanwhile, I was busy riding a tractor in a bikini and cutoffs, dreaming of my escape. I felt he should pay.
Finally a chance to say "Hey, I love you"
When the film was released to not a whole lot of critical acclaim, I was an indisputably naïve teen, living near a whole lot of nothing. Philadelphia, the den of iniquity I was forbidden to visit, was on the other end of the train line, a doable trip, if only someone would give me a lift to our station, over a half-hour’s drive away. Fear not, dear reader, my former babysitter taught me how to hitchhike. Philly lived up to its promise. I “discovered” ska, and that was that.
Never again to be all alone
You Light Up My Life was on some list of verboten films, perhaps because in the opening scenes, the Didi Conn character, a struggling actress and singer, goes home with a man she just met (sort of a meet-cute, but also harassment-adjacent). Soon after, she reveals she's engaged to another man, which 14-year-old me found very intriguing. The ending, Conn having shed her domineering father and glass of milk fiancée, displays a kind of freedom I had not begun to process. I was, however, able to understand the later betrayal by her hookup/producer/blow dried 1970s bad-boy archetype.
I remember loving the clothes that Didi Conn wore (vest and flare pants combos), wanted her car, and when she popped her cute luggage in that convertible to head off to New York City after dumping her fiancé, I just about lost my mind.
And you light up my life
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days and fill my nights with song
'Cause you, you light up my life
The theme song had nothing to do with the actual story and even less to do with female autonomy, yet it became an anthem for the possibility of someone like me, a small brunette with a grown-out Dorothy Hammill haircut and out-of-touch parents, to say screw you to what was expected of her. The cruel irony of the Ukrainian-American singer having given life to the song only to have it gifted to an untested but well-connected girl from a powerful entertainment family was, at that time, entirely lost on me. I was too busy burning my forehead with a curling iron and plotting my escape.
In my memory, I'd seen the movie in a double-feature with Saturday Night Fever, another movie (with superior music) on said list. We were also forbidden to see Grease, in which Conn played Frenchie, the pink-wigged beauty school drop-out. I watched these movies over and over, trying to figure out how I would get to be in the world. Sex, sometimes in cars, so many great outfits, and a neverending feed of catchy songs. Being able to sing would help, a talent I did not inherit from my own entertainment family.
This did not deter me from being a theater kid. My main virtue, musical theater-wise, was being small enough for skinny ninth grade boys to lift during the inevitable flip-the-girl-dancers-over-the-back move. Which brings me to a dear friend’s audition. This was early high school, and I have no idea what the show was. Something with a huge cast and dated enough to be copyright-free. She and I had seen You Light up My Life multiple times, because telling a kid what not to do solidly guarantees they'll do it (see hitchhiking, above).
You give me hope to carry on
You light up my days and fill my nights with song
My friend chose to sing "You Light Up My Life" for her audition. This was a bold move, the song was everywhere, and anyone with a set of ears knew what it was supposed to sound like. But she had the sassy pageboy haircut, but in a glowier and natural blond. She nailed the lip gloss, super slick with only a good-girl hint of color. I remember feeling very uncomfortable as she sang. Her version was all want, if slightly off-key.
It can't be wrong
When it feels so right
We spent a lot of time talking about boys, and all those conflicted feelings landed hard in this Catholic school auditorium. I got in the show, as some sort of chorus person, and she did not. Subsequently, she landed a boyfriend who was smart, cute, and nice. Is there a lesson here? Who knows, but whenever I hear the song, I think about how the world would be a better place without high school. And, how it is possible to rock just about any song, provided you're not dead inside.
'Cause you…..you light up my life
The words on the page read like a framework. The tune can become whatever the singer makes of it, meaning that to hold up, the singer must want something or at least have a bit of style. Just watching the blank-eyed Boone perform, while her father creepily looks on, betrays the fact that the singer was not encouraged or able to put any emotion behind the song.
Boone has held to her claim that she was not thinking about earthly love when she sang—a thing that cannot be confirmed nor denied—but I have a suspicion this take was engineered by her daddy, the evangelical superstar, Pat Boone. This purported construction is so very different than the sensibilities that landed the song on the top of the charts for so damn long. Who among us has not pictured the object of our longing, standing in our nighttime front yard, pining. (That this visual is effective was proven a dozen years later by John Cusack in Say Anything.)
After he was forced to watch the movie by his demanding wife, my husband suggested that maybe the “you” was 2nd person. That Boone was singing to herself, empowered. Nice try, bud. His effort to rehabilitate the song pissed me off and reminded me that he grew up with better music than I did. Stay in your much cooler lane, sir.
There are scores of folks currently in middle age, myself included, who can confirm this was their prom song (I wore mauve). These theme songs are chosen based solely on children's untested ideas of true love. This was a song boys played to girls they hoped to grope upon threadbare basement couches, imaging the base count they’d achieve.
That this song can have such a varied interpretation proves the emptiness of the lyrics. The one positive thing I can say is that it provides an opportunity for the singer to make it their own. It is the ultimate musical Choose Your Own Adventure. Exhibit one: this skit from The Carol Burnett Show.
Some cover artists chose, as Boone did, to make something accessible. Versions by Whitney Houston and LeAnn Rimes, while financially successful, added nothing artistically. Sure, they sang pretty songs, if that's your kind of thing. On the other hand, Jean Carn's jazz version is saturated with feeling. The insipid lyrics, which we cannot blame either artist for, fall away. Further proof is offered by two versions by Patti Smith. One was performed on Kids Are People Too, a children’s television show, where she was adorably interviewed by the luckiest children in the world. This rendition was relatively staid, but hinting at the possibilities of Punk. The other, which appears on her album, Easter, is 200% Patti Smith. Corporeal and wormy, it could be read as an homage to heroin. Please note, there is no evidence Smith partook, and I have no idea what I'm going on about. In both versions, most notably the second, Smith pours herself into the void. To be clear, I'm not rehabilitating the song, but praising Smith.
That said, plenty of people love the Boone version, or so says the YouTube comments section. Many write it makes them cry (!) and even more claim it is their very favorite song. There is much talk of Boone's beauty, and lots of God-talk, pro and con.
I sing this song to my bearded dragon:)
3 years ago:
This is a beautiful song, but sometimes it gives me crying spells..., 😭😭
"This can't be wrong when it feels so right," It probably isn't about God
I suppose I should state an official position. To recap, Boone did not write this song, nor was she the original singer. Her voice is perfectly fine (said in writing workshop voice). It has been called "sweet" and "lovely" which I guess is true, if that's your kind of thing. The lyrics are as much a song as an empty toolbox is a thing that can fix a busted pipe. It’s just a container which could be repurposed into any number of things. It depends on the filling. And here, where Boone is charged with loading the vessel with meaning, I give it a hard fail.
In the words of YouTube critic, X_toxicity:
Supposedly the biggest hit of the 70s. However, songs that were less popular have since outshined it.
Really goes to show you that popularity isn’t everything. And more higher quality songs got their time to shine in the future.
Linda Michel-Cassidy is a teacher, editor, visual artist, and back in the day, was a bartender in a joint whose house band covered ZZ Top. Only ZZ Top. She hosts the interview podcast, The Eight Books that Made Me for the Mill Valley, CA Library. Find her at lmichelcassidy.com, on Twitter: @lmichelcassidy, and instagram at: lmichelcassidy.
MICHAEL SCHAUB ON “CONVOY”
I feel safe asserting that out of all the songs in this year’s tournament, “Convoy” is the only one performed by a fictional truck driver. (I am not going to fact check this.) C.W. McCall was the creation of an Omaha ad agency director named William Fries who, in a fit of astounding timing, put out the song at the best possible time—right when the nation was in the grips of CB radio fever, which was a thing; I have no clue why.
Narrated by a rogue truck driver with the handle Rubber Duck, McCall’s song followed a convoy of truckers—starting small, and eventually a thousand strong—that drives from Los Angeles (“Shaky Town”) to the Jersey Shore, ignoring all law enforcement officers (“bears”) who try to stop them. It is heavy with CB/trucker slang (to be honest, I still have no clue what a “cab-over Pete with a reefer on” is), the chorus is cheesy as hell, and the vocals are objectively silly.
But here’s the thing: It doesn’t belong in this tournament. “Convoy” fucking rules. It’s an amazing song.
I don’t remember when I first heard “Convoy,” but it must have been sometime in the early ‘80s, on one of the country stations my dad listened to. Then at some point in middle school, I was listening to the Dr. Demento show (I was that kid) when he played a parody of the song called “Car Phone,” a sendup of the then-new technology and the rich young professionals who could afford it (“He’s got a bitchin’ car phone / He thinks he owns the road / Yeah, he’s got a brand-new car phone / He’s stuck in the yuppie mode.”
For some reason, hearing this truly awful doggerel made me seek out the original, and I was hooked. The ‘70s country I had heard had been pretty bad—countrypolitan singers dressed in unfortunate outfits and pop singers repackaged as salt-of-the-earth country musicians. (I hadn’t heard outlaw country yet.)
The most charming thing about Convoy is McCall’s don’t-give-a-shit attitude toward the whole thing. Nothing about the song makes all that much sense, even if you do understand the trucker lingo. How did they get past the roadblock on the cloverleaf in Tulsa? Are they ever stopping for gas? What’s their plan once they reach the Jersey Shore? And what’s up with the “eleven long-haired friends of Jesus in a chartreuse microbus”?
But McCall sings with such a goofball commitment to the concept that the questions seem beside the point. It’s a hilariously angry song that sees McCall—an ad man from Nebraska—side strongly with the truckers who were mad about … something. (“Swindle sheets,” for one, I guess. Boy, they hated those “swindle sheets”! Also, they weren’t keen on tolls. I’m sure there’s more history about this, but I feel like more context would ruin the song for me. Also, I’m lazy.)
The last stanza of the song is one of my favorites in all of country music:
Well, we laid a strip for the Jersey shore
And prepared to cross the line
I could see the bridge was lined with bears
But I didn't have a doggone dime
I says, "Pig Pen, this here's the Rubber Duck
We just ain't a-gonna pay no toll
So we crashed the gate doing 98
I says, "Let them truckers roll, 10-4."
The song ends before we figure out what happened next. What happened once they reached the Atlantic? Did they turn themselves in? Were there any legal ramifications? I bet there were legal ramifications! It’s a perfect ending.
Or it would have been, if it weren’t for McCall’s sequel song, “‘Round the World With the Rubber Duck,” which is one of the misbegotten songs in country history. The song picks up with the convoy at the Atlantic Ocean, which they proceed to drive across to England, using the power of prayer (remember the friends of Jesus in the microbus)? The chorus, sung by people attempting to sound like pirates, goes:
Yo ho ho, and a thousand trucks
Gonna take a bath with a Rubber Duck
Yo ho ho, and a-lots o’ luck
'Round the world with the Rubber Ducky!
The rest of the song continues in that vein, with someone (McCall?) doing a variety of bad accents, including English, German, Russian, and Japanese. (I know what you’re thinking, and it’s even more racist than you’re imagining.) Throughout the rest of the song, the backing singers chant, “This is dumb, dumb, dumb,” displaying a pretty impressive sense of self-awareness on McCall’s part.
But even that awful song can’t quite ruin “Convoy” for me. It is to country music what truck-stop Slim Jims are to filet mignon—objectively and aggressively not-the-same-thing, but close enough that you can justify it if you’re skilled at self-delusion. It approaches badness at so many angles that it somehow ends up good, which seems appropriate from a bit of American pop culture from the ‘70s. It’s dated, frequently nonsensical and corny as hell, but I don’t care. I love it. Let them truckers roll, y’all.
Michael Schaub is a journalist and book critic who lives in Texas.