4 Old-Timey Songs That Are Far From Innocent

By now, you've probably grown tired of hearing Granddad Shmitz complaining that "they don't make 'em like the used to," "'em" being anything and everything from cars to prostitutes.  But if there's one thing the previous generation is morally obligated to hate most, it's all of the music that came after their own era.  So, they trash "the MTV" and insist that in their day there was real music.  Clearly, we should be looking into homes for Granddad Shmitz, if he thinks this Elvis guy was "realer" than Lil' Wayne, or that MTV has anything to do with music.

My workplace gives me excruciatingly ample opportunity to sample music from the past.  If songs like "Whack-a-Doo" and "Yackety-Yack" didn't make it obvious enough, songwriting in the old days did not exactly require a poetic command of lyricism, nor, necessarily, the English language.  You could just make up shit, fo' sheezy.  Go ahead and listen to these execrable oldies if you think you have the ironclad stomach and eardrums with testicles.  But what a lot of people seem to forget is just how scandalous, dirty, and sometimes disturbing songs from that golden era could be.  A few of them make Justin Bieber sound like . . . well, the neutered, underaged, cherubic pop princeling he is.

. . . he'll be legal, girls.

God, we've gotten a lot of humor mileage out of someone who was supposed to have a 6-month shelf-life.  Anyway, people like to think the oldies were even more benign than Biebs, but certain tunes sing a different, er, tune.  As you may have guessed by this point, it all boils down to sex.  You can chalk it up to generational naïveté if you want, but there is no way anyone could pretend the following songs were innocent in their day, and that only jaded hindsight makes them filthy and sometimes weird.

"No Particular Place to Go" - Chuck Berry

Maybe this is where rock'n'roll first got its reputation for its insidious corrupting influence on the American youth, despite sounding as dangerous as elevator bebop to modern ears.  Chuck Berry is widely considered one of the founding fathers of American rock, before Sex and Drugs became essential components, instead of merely unacknowledged backstage perks.  He's the guy who actually wrote and recorded "Johnny B. Goode," the timeline-altering song Marty McFly shocks his parents' prom with in the first Back to the Future (as if this reference has much more relevance than Chuck Berry to younger audiences).

He also suffered from a chronic delusion that all ceilings were, at most, 4' high.

"No Particular Place to Go" is a classic rock song from Berry, an innuendo-laden middle finger to WASPy prudishness.  But, looking back on it, the metaphor was about as subtle as a Carrot-Top joke.  The message is only subliminal if you drank a significant quantity of paint in your childhood.  "No Particular Place to Go" is, on its pomade-thin surface, about the phenomenon of "cruising," that curious tendency of '50s and early-'60s youths to aimlessly idle their chrome-plated Chevy Phallusmobiles around town, maybe because they were waiting for the Internet to be invented.  What the song is really about is the corollary to cruising: "parking," which meant taking country lanes and attempting to nail Mary-Sue-Ellen in the backseat, a rather modest aspiration, given that most of said vehicles had enough interior space to facilitate a Roman orgy.

Betty-Jo-Ann was a better bet.  Gosh, she's swell!

Don't believe me?  Think that's way too wild of content for the puritanical standards of an age when TV could, without irony, name a child character on primetime "the Beaver," yet demand that Lucy and Ricky sleep in separate beds?  Here is a quick sampling of the lyrics:

I stole a kiss at the turn of a mile
My curiosity runnin' wild
. . .
No particular place to go,
So we parked way out on the Kokomo
The night was young and the moon was gold
So we both decided to take a stroll
Can you imagine the way I felt?
I couldn't unfasten her safety belt!

Ridin' along in my calaboose
Still tryin' to get her belt aloose
All the way home I held a grudge,
For the safety belt that wouldn't budge

Yes, her seat belt was the issue, a strap that is notoriously-difficult to unclasp for the inexperienced.  And, naturally, no girl can go on a stroll with you if you can't unfasten her safety restraint!  (If you can't tell, I am winking and nudging you with my elbow every time I use italics).  You wily wordsmith, Chuck!  It was apparently sly enough to slip by the censors of the day, who were noted less for their open-minded leniency and more for being tweed-clad squares, or, as we would say now, complete dickheads.

"Hanky Panky" - The Raindrops / Tommy James and the Shondells

What do I have to say?  It's in the freakin' title.  It is the title: "Hanky Panky."  You do know "hanky panky" means "sex," right?  Because it means "sex," if you didn't get the memo.  And, just to drive home the point, the song was kind enough to remind you no less than eighteen fucking times that this baby does it.  No, I am not hyperbolizing, the line "My baby does the hanky panky" is literally repeated eighteen times in the song, which, for those who are keeping count, is eight more lines than the rest of the song combined.  Clearly, this girlfriend does the shit out of the hanky panky.  Not only that, the other ten lines are actually just these same five lines repeated twice:

I saw her walkin' on down the line
You know I saw her for the very first time
A pretty little girl standin' all alone
"Hey, pretty baby, can I take you home?"
I never saw her, never really saw her

You may also note that this anonymous baby is pretty obviously a hooker.  Some people will claim that "hanky panky" was just a dance back then, but those people are pretty obviously goddamn window-lickers.

Hey, you two, get a dance floor!

"Hanky Panky" was originally written and recorded in 1963 by The Raindrops, who hated it, then mysteriously re-released to much wider popularity by Tommy James and the Shondells in 1966, despite them being presumable window-lickers as well.  Why else would anyone cover a throwaway song even its creators disavowed?

Tommy James and Not The Beatles

You see, the multifaceted gem was allegedly crafted in 20 minutes to be a Raindrops' B-side (the crap side of a "recording disc" that's not intended to ever be played, yet for some reason must also have music on it) for a song called, naturally, "That Boy John."  Just in case you needed further confirmation of the real meaning behind their subversive music.  What an idyllic time!  Next.

"Knock Three Times" - Tony Orlando & Dawn

This is where all pretense was dropped.  Tony Orlando, in spite of having the name and appearance of a '70s porn star, was a musician who simply sang about porn scenarios.

"Dawn" was the collective name he gave the two vaginas in his band.

"Knock Three Times" was yet another charming entry in the category of Popular Songs About Casual Sex in an Age That Pretended Sex Didn't Happen.  All right, so it was written in 1970, beyond the original prescribed time-frame of this article, but who the hell is writing this, you or me?  As if you fucking know anything about Tony Orlando.  Did you know the women in that picture weren't even the real backup vocalists on the track in question?  Or that this song existed at all?  That's what I thought.  Point is, it sounds like a much earlier song and fits the rest of my criteria.

Hey, girl, what ya doin' down there
Dancin' alone every night while I live right above you
I can hear your music playin'
I can feel your body swayin'
One floor below me, you don't even know me
I love you
Oh my darling 

Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me
Twice on the pipe if the answer is no
Oh my sweetness
Means you'll meet me in the hallway
Twice on the pipe means you ain't gonna show 

If you look out your window tonight
Pull in the string with the note that's attached to my heart
Read how many times I saw you
How in my silence I adored you
Only in my dreams did that wall between us come apart
Oh my darling

REPEAT INDECENT PROPOSITION 

So, evidently, it was acceptable to write songs that were blatant invitations to strange women for anonymous fuck-buddy booty-calls via Morse code.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  To modern sensibilities, that shit is outright romantic.  It only gets borderline stalker-ish when Chest-Wig up there croons "Pull in the string with the note that's attached to my heart / Read how many times I saw you / How in my silence I adored you."  Then again, half of all love songs have vaguely obsessive-predatory undertones these days, so who cares?

*Pictured: Romance.

Hell, compared to the blunt messages of such recent hits as Enrique Iglesias' "Tonight I'm Fucking You" and Lil' Jon's older "Get Low," "Knock Three Times" sounds positively Nicholas Sparks-tender.  At least it is an open-ended request for a hookup.  It's not nearly as bad as the final oldie-but-scary on this list . . .

"Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen" - Neil Sedaka

It was 1961, and pop singer Neil Sedaka decided, presumably on a strawberry malt-bender, that he needed to release an ode to his own yen for jailbait.  Or at least that's as plausible a theory as any, given that he produced "Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen."  To grasp just what's wrong with this one, I am providing the suspect lyrics, which is virtually all of them:

Happy birthday sweet sixteen
Tonight's the night I've waited for
Because you're not a baby anymore
You've turned into the prettiest girl I've ever seen
Happy birthday sweet sixteen
What happened to that funny face
My little tomboy now wears satin and lace
I can't believe my eyes you're just a teenage dream
Happy birthday sweet sixteen
When you were only six I was your big brother
Then, when you were ten, we didn't like each other
When you were thirteen, you were my funny valentine
But since you've grown up, your future is sewn up
From now on you're gonna be mine, so
If I should smile with sweet surprise
It's just that you've grown up before my very eyes
You've turned into the prettiest girl I've ever seen
Happy birthday sweet sixteen

This is not an adoring paean of chaste adulation.  Coming from a then-20-something guy, it's not the pure praise of a proud father or even a creepy stepbrother.  The lines "Tonight's the night I've waited for" and "When you were only six I was your big brother" rule that out, unless this little ditty is even darker and more twisted than I'm suggesting.

Actually, this lecher is suggesting it, not me.

Putting aside horrifying possibilities of incest and child abuse, the very best this song can conjure is lusting after your buddy's newly-pubescent little sister.  The message is clear as an old-timey soda fountain drink without the syrup: "I've watched you grow from a child, like a wolf circling its prey, and now that you are bangable by the legal standard of our time, I'm going to fuck your still-impressionable brains out."  To add an extra dash of GHB to the recipe of sleaziness, this "love song" tells the female in question she essentially has no choice in the matter either; he's been waiting too long for her sweet sixteen to be denied now.  The song turns downright rapey.  What do you expect from a guy in that shirt (which looks suspiciously like something old-school Enrique Iglesias might wear)?

I got you a present: it's my dick.

Really, no other interpretation is possible.  Oldies, you are a bunch of perverts, just like we always thought.  Especially you, Uncle Neil.

KP, out.

If you think a monkey could do this job, you're underestimating the monkey

Perusing my previous entries, I see it has been a while since I last posted any new material.  If that is the case, it typically means nothing and no one has especially pissed me off lately, necessitating a rant.  As usual, when the demon of writer's block rears its ugly head (think Mola Ram, the bat-shit skull-hat dude from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, but with Nancy Grace's face), I turn to that perpetual annoyance machine, Facebook.  More specifically, the advertisements that muscle my vital timeline posts aside and scream, What the fuck are we even selling?!?

This one only appears after 12 AM, on Comedy Central.

Whoa!  Not only do I need to have reached the age of legal adulthood, but also legal majority!  Even if I'm old enough to get shit-faced at bars, I'm still not mature enough to handle the epic badassery and pure wild intensity that is Battle Pirates on Facebook.  That is some hardcore gaming!  Or so this ad seems to suggest.  And of course it goes without saying that anyone over 42 would be in danger of a massive coronary from sheer awesome overdose.  Better stay away, Gramps!

Two-for-one deal!  See if you can spot the bogus ads!

First, Gillette: you are a razor-blade company.  You make appliances that cut the hair from my face (and other areas on special occasions).  That is the beginning and end of our relationship.  Unless it involves the sexy aftermath or copious amounts of squirting blood, no shaving "story" could possibly be of interest to anyone of the non-sociopathic variety.  The fact that it's Andre 3000's facial grooming anecdote adds approximately "Hey No!" appeal.  Do you like what I did there?

Second, AVG.  Most of you shiftless Internet-moochers probably recognize this as one of the leading free computer security software providers.  You may also notice this has almost exactly fuck-all to do with pitting human beings against predatory felines, as the link promises, a blurb more suited to one of Spike TV's "World's [Whatever]est [Whatever] Caught on Video" specials.  In perhaps one of the most bizarre cross-promotional strategies ever devised by people on significant amounts of cocaine, the video shows AVG's own "documentary team," which they have, building a protective cage out of 3.5 million toothpicks to serve as an observation post for watching wild tigers, all as a vague metaphor for how AVG's huge security network functions.  If I could make up shit like that, I would not be writing a free blog.

"No, seriously, Mitch, I have this fan-fuckin'-tastic
seasonal pun no one has ever thought of before!"

Actually, I don't really fault the makers of this one, but when I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye, my immediate thought was, "Just another Dark Knight Rises knockoff image."

What, just me?

That may say more about my subconscious than anything else.  On the other hand, since content-tailored, targeted marketing is a major trend on the Internet, this may just be one of the subtlest, most insidious examples yet.  It wouldn't be the first time Facebook & Co. gleaned certain information about my mental state from my profile to exploit me . . .

Focus on the top one, not WoW: Kung Fu Panda Skadooshion.

In all seriousness, there is a definite excess of lightsabers on my sidebar overall.  This one in particular is really reaching for the connection, though.  Putting aside that (1) no Jedi could ever be without work in this dark universe and (2) that kid is way too young to be anything more than a Padawan, what reputable corporation would cater to me this way?  Do they think remedial alliteration instills respect?  (That would be your word of the day, ignorant masses.)  Or that I automatically want to associate with anything Star Wars-related, however remote the degree, out of desperation?  "Douchebags, you are."

Clearly, her response to, "Hey, you forgot your pants."

And if it's not lightsabers, it's tits.  If you thought lightsabers were relatable to anything, the pushin'-cushions are more versatile than Bear Ghrylls' Swiss Army knife.  Just ask Ms. Camel-Toe up there.  When she's not tapping into my meme-savvy hipster disillusionment with the tee-shirt she's schilling, she's promising me I can tap her with my "Single" status on Facebook.  All right, that metaphor broke down a little, but it was still pretty damned clever.  Naturally, it doesn't take Mark "If You Don't like 'Timelines,' Go Back to Myspace" Zuckerburg's filter algorithms to determine sex sells.

Nice crossbow.

This gem comes from another non-pornographic website I frequent where certain assumptions are going to be made about the target demographic.  Need I point out how hard it is going to be for her to operate that windlass, let alone aim the bow, with such overripe melons bursting from her ill-laced bodice?  (Eat your heart out, whoever writes those crap "romance"/girl-porn paperbacks.)  Hell, they even give you choices when it comes to which Final Fantasy ripoff, maybe-animated chick you can digitally bone to thwart the forces of evil, because that totally makes sense.

Where's Rikku's doppelganger?  I want to up her skill-tree level.*
*Joke will be understood by roughly .1% of readers

Speaking of fail on a level so epic no meme has yet encompassed it, there are those ubiquitous adverts for various "universities," "institutes," "academies," and "back-alley scams with websites on pirated servers in countries you cannot pronounce and, frankly, don't believe exist."  And, boy howdy, will they educate the shit out of you.  In much the same way you learned not to follow the links your so-called "friends" sent you for "goatse" or "two girls one cup."  But, honestly, if you can't see the false promises coming when the ads look . . . well, the way the majority of them look, you deserve whatever financial corn-holing you receive.  That, intrepid followers, is legitimate rape.

Her application to NASA reads:
Major in Space Studies
Minor in Swallowing for Career Advancement

Credentials nearly as credible as this ad:

For the record, I captured this image from my Facebook page only four months ago, which for the uninitiated is, give or take, six months after the release of the game in question.  If you are still signing up to beta-test a game that came out that long ago, you have about as much business in gaming as Jesse Ventura had in politics.  Does anyone remember him?  Professional wrestler who became the governor of Minnesota in the '90s?  Well, look him up.

KP, out.