This week In Male Balladeers 02/52

1 . Andy Williams . Softly As I Leave You

Recorded in early 1963 and released on the 1964 album *The Wonderful World of Andy Williams*, “Softly As I Leave You” is every bit the melancholic farewell it promises to be.

Set against sparse, traditional pop instrumentation, Andy Williams approaches the song with a vulnerability that feels precise yet unembellished.

The track’s appeal lies less in its originality—it’s a cover of a piece made famous by Matt Monro and Frank Sinatra—and more in its quiet earnestness.

Williams treads delicately, his voice gliding through the melody as if tiptoeing out of the metaphorical door the song narrates.

Produced by Robert Mersey, the arrangement is as clean as mid-century pop production gets, with Columbia Records’ trademark polish ensuring every note feels deliberate.

By 1964, Williams had mastered the art of emoting within the boundaries of accessible radio-friendly pop, and this track is no exception.

That said, the song doesn’t scream individuality—it’s more a polite nod to the predecessors who brought it into public consciousness.

Its charm lies in its simplicity, though cynics might suggest it borders on restrained to the point of forgettable.

The album itself, which peaked impressively in the Billboard and *Cashbox* album charts, earned Gold certification, but this track isn’t its focal point.

While it doesn’t demand attention or challenge its audience, “Softly As I Leave You” serves its purpose: a tender, understated goodbye cloaked in nostalgia.

It’s the kind of song you imagine being performed in smokey mid-century lounges, fitting comfortably into an era where pop crooners owned the narrative of quiet heartbreak.

Lifted from : Andy Williams records the album ‘The Wonderful World of Andy Williams’ for Columbia Records (1963)

2 . Bob Dylan . Blind Willie McTell

Recorded in 1983 but withheld until 1991, Bob Dylan’s “Blind Willie McTell” stands as a peculiar outlier, a song too monumental for its own album, *Infidels*.

It’s almost Shakespearean: a work brimming with historical weight, yet tragically orphaned at birth.

The narrative winds through America’s darkest terrains—slavery, poverty, and cultural erasure—anchored by the spectral presence of blues legend Blind Willie McTell, whose name is more invocation than explanation.

A musical eulogy over a somber blues canvas, the melody’s echoes of “Saint James Infirmary Blues” add a faintly macabre tint.

Dylan’s raspy delivery and sparse instrumentation, co-produced with Mark Knopfler, lure listeners into a dimly lit room of disquieting truths.

The lyrics read like a Southern Gothic novel translated into song, with the sardonic eye of a symbolist poet watching from the corner.

It’s the sound of someone peering into history’s abyss, only to see their own reflection staring back.

From cultural critiques to existential undertones, it’s a song that murmurs across time, though Dylan’s decision to exile it from *Infidels* will forever puzzle fans and critics alike.

Yet that omission sealed its legendary status—less a released track than a ghost haunting Dylan’s career, turning every live performance (whether Montreal in 1997 or Lisbon in 1999) into a séance for a nation’s unhealed wounds.

Lifted from : Bob Dylan sings for Martin Scorsese (2012)

3 . Tony Bennett . Without A Song

Tony Bennett’s 1958 rendition of “Without A Song” carries with it all the gravitas of a classic jazz standard while dodging the live recording label entirely through some technical sleight of hand—a studio session dressed up with applause, later stripped bare for a remaster that’s cleaner but arguably less charming.

Backed by Count Basie and his Orchestra, the track strikes a balance between Bennett’s silky phrasing and the orchestra’s tight, swinging brass arrangements, recorded at the legendary CBS 30th Street Studio in New York.

Mitch Miller, known for his distinct production values, infuses the track with just enough polish to elevate the performance without steamrolling its inherent soulfulness—a tricky balance that jazz often demands but only occasionally achieves.

The titular refrain suggests perseverance through life’s challenges, an oddly fitting metaphor for the recording’s chaotic origins, reigned in by artistry and technical wizardry.

Bennett revisited this number in 1965 for his _If I Ruled the World_ album, where it found a smoother, more polished home in his embrace of traditional pop influences, though lacking the punchy spontaneity of the Basie collaboration.

Originally composed in 1929, the song’s pedigree as a standard keeps it relevant decades later, but it’s Bennett’s interpretations—shaped by era and context—that breathe new life into what could otherwise languish as another museum piece of jazz history.

Both versions reflect different shades of Bennett’s artistry: one swings with measured chaos; the other glides with polished ease, neither needing a video clip or chart-topping status to cement its staying power.

Lifted from : Columbia publish Tony Bennett’s album . ‘Tony’ (1957)

4 . Dean Martin . That’s Amore

Released in 1953, “That’s Amore” by Dean Martin is the sonic equivalent of a postcard from Naples, served with a wink and a side of spaghetti carbonara.

Produced by Lee Gillette under Capitol Records, it peaked at No. 2 on the Billboard charts, proving that a parody of Italian romance could strike a universal chord—call it kitsch, call it charm, but you can’t call it forgettable.

Written by Harry Warren and Jack Brooks at the behest of Jerry Lewis, this track is less a love song and more an ode to mozzarella-induced euphoria, comparing matters of the heart to everything from pizza to moonlit avenues.

The song’s inclusion in *The Caddy*—a quintessential Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis romp—only cemented its association with 1950s Italian-American nostalgia, complete with gondolas and exaggerated accents.

It’s undeniably catchy, though its saccharine caricatures of Italian culture border on thinly-veiled parody rather than heartfelt tribute.

Musically, it’s traditional pop with easy charm, but beneath the cheese (literal and figurative), there’s an undeniable craftsmanship in its melody that has kept it alive through countless reinterpretations in film (*Moonstruck*, *Rear Window*) and even video games (*Mario Teaches Typing 2*).

The production captures a warm, vintage Hollywood vibe, recorded at Capitol Studios in Los Angeles, preserving the lush, analog sound of the era.

Certified platinum in the U.S. and gold in New Zealand, the track’s broader pop culture staying power arguably outweighs its immediate artistic merit—sometimes a little pasta-themed whimsy is all the world needs.

Lifted from : Dean Martin releases his first studio album . ‘Dean Martin Sings’ (1953)

5 . The Doors . Touch Me

“Touch Me” by The Doors feels like a kaleidoscope of late ’60s pop, jazz, and rock, all wrapped in a shimmering orchestral coating.

Released in late 1968, the track marked a bold pivot for a band better known for its dark, brooding soundscapes.

Robbie Krieger’s songwriting veered toward romantic promises and sensual desires, with lines that seem tailor-made for a cocktail lounge serenade but delivered by the enigmatic Jim Morrison.

Its production, via Paul A. Rothchild, adds a slick, almost theatrical polish, with lush brass sections and Curtis Amy’s saxophone solo stealing the spotlight midway.

Originally titled “Hit Me,” the name was wisely changed, though the track still captures an audacious energy within its polished frame.

Performing it live on *The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour*, Morrison brought his signature intensity, juxtaposing the bright orchestrate vibe with his brooding magnetism.

Both a departure and a statement, the song embodies contradictions—bridging psychedelia with pop elegance, avant-garde poetry with commercial ambition.

Lifted from : As we wish, today, The Doors guitarist Robby Krieger, . Happy Birthday, the day is perfect for . ‘BESTS of The Doors’ post

6 . Kurt Elling . Time To Say Goodbye

Kurt Elling’s “Time To Say Goodbye,” lifted from his 2003 album *Man in the Air*, is less a pop-jazz confection and more an intimate conversation with shadows.

Built on the ethereal curve of Joe Zawinul’s instrumental “A Remark You Made,” Elling adds words to weightless notes, replacing brass nostalgia with his own bittersweet rumination.

This isn’t a song that aims for chart lights—it basks in the dim hue of a late-night lounge where eye contact speaks louder than applause.

The recording, stitched together in Chicago’s CRC studios, is anchored by Laurence Hobgood’s production, which humbly cradles Elling’s voice while letting Zawinul’s melodic echoes drift just far enough into the haze.

Jazz purists might squint at Elling’s vocalese addition, but his approach strays from audacious; it leans contemplative, tracing the tune’s emotional silhouette rather than redrawing it.

Though layered with Elling’s trademark sophistication, “Time To Say Goodbye” steers clear of over-intellectualism—its beauty lies in the spaces between, in lyrics that hover rather than hammer.

It’s a goodbye, certainly, but not one that slams the door; it lingers, whispering its departure like smoke dissipating into a Chicago night.

Lifted from : Kurt Elling records ‘Man in the Air’ his sixth album for Blue Note (2003)

7 . Paul Simon . Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard

“Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard” is a sly, rhythm-infused folk-pop anecdote that plays like a wink shared between insiders.

Landing on Paul Simon’s self-titled 1972 album, the song thrives on ambiguity and youthful mischief, offering a narrative that Simon himself famously refused to unpack, much to the delight and frustration of listeners.

The lyrics tease at a transgressive act committed by “me and Julio,” whose exact crime remains shrouded in playful mystery—Simon once hinted it might be something sexual but left the specifics conspicuously absent.

This cheeky enigma is set against a backdrop of buoyant, Latin-influenced guitar rhythms and a whistling solo that feels as carefree as the story itself pretends to be.

The song balances its intrigue with playful irreverence, dropping characters like a radical priest and Rosie, the elusive “Queen of Corona,” who add color and drama to the tale.

Simon’s upbringing in Queens is etched into the track’s DNA, grounding its youthful escapades in a palpable sense of place.

The simplicity of the composition is deceptive, with layers of rhythm and faint rock undertones that subtly underline the storytelling.

The public’s fascination with the song’s meaning arguably amplified its success, as it topped charts internationally and peaked at a respectable No. 22 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100.

The music video, released in 1988, doubled down on its mischievous tone, recruiting figures like Mickey Mantle and John Madden to underscore its charm.

As folk rock goes, this one leans heavily into its pop sensibilities, crafting a sound that is as breezy as it is enduringly enigmatic.

Performed during Simon’s *Saturday Night Live* debut in 1975, the song has a lighthearted, timeless quality that makes you almost grateful it never spells everything out.

Lifted from : Columbia publish ‘Paul Simon,’ his eponymous second solo album featuring ‘Mother and Child Reunion,’ ‘Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard’ and ‘Duncan’ (1972)

8 . Elvis Presley . My Way

Elvis Presley’s rendition of “My Way” is less a song and more a swan song, a moment of introspection draped in schmaltzy orchestral flourishes.

First recorded in 1971 and immortalized in a live performance during the 1973 “Aloha from Hawaii” concert, Elvis’s take on Paul Anka’s English lyrics reimagines the original French “Comme d’habitude” as a declaration of rugged individualism, swaggering and sentimental in equal measure.

The track’s recurring theme of living life on one’s own terms feels like a fitting irony, considering Presley’s tightly controlled career, which often contrasted with the ideals of freedom the song champions.

Musically, it veers into the realm of easy listening, propelled by a swelling string section and a vocal delivery that oscillates between raw vulnerability and theatrical bombast.

Comparisons to Frank Sinatra’s version are inevitable, yet Presley infuses it with a hint of melancholia, his voice seeming to explore the cracks between triumph and weariness.

The 1977 live release, recorded just months before his death, gains poignancy as Presley’s voice carries an undertone of exhaustion, adding gravitas to lyrics that mark an almost defiant farewell to the world.

Though its production bears the saccharine sheen of the ’70s, and the emotion teeters on the brink of excess, the track remains compelling, offering both a glimpse into Presley’s state of mind and a reflection of the era’s appetite for grand gestures in music.

Lifted from : Elvis Presley says ‘Aloha From Hawaii’ (1973)

9 . Ry Cooder . Vigilante Man

Ry Cooder’s “Vigilante Man,” lifted from his 1972 album *Into the Purple Valley*, isn’t just a song—it’s a time machine loaded with strings and grit, dropping listeners straight into the Dust Bowl. Based on Woody Guthrie’s original from 1940, the track is essentially a masterclass in storytelling set to chords borrowed from the likes of Blind Lemon Jefferson and The Carter Family. Cooder’s rendition channels the stark violence of hired muscle chasing down hapless migrants—a bleak slice of Americana wrapped in understated folk-blues tones.

The live performance on *The Old Grey Whistle Test* adds yet another layer of raw authenticity. With his soulful slide guitar and unvarnished vocals, Cooder strips the tune of pretense, letting its message resonate loud and clear. It’s eerie, not for its volume, but for its restraint—the quiet menace of history lingering just beneath each note. Rarely does music from this period sound so pointed without overplaying its hand.

While officially labeled as roots or Americana, this isn’t your average trip down nostalgia lane. Cooder avoids the trap of romanticizing hardship, preferring instead to highlight economic inequality and a grim sense of dislocation. It’s music for anyone who doesn’t mind sitting with discomfort. Though perhaps overshadowed by Guthrie’s name, Cooder’s approach favors subtle craftsmanship that magnifies the subject matter rather than overshadowing it.

The trivia behind the song’s lineage is fascinating on its own—a lineage that connects early American folk traditions across decades, charting a path through cultural anxieties. But don’t expect frills or revelatory epiphanies here. This is a song born of dust and sweat, and it wears that lineage like a badge. Its contradictions—simple yet complex, brooding but not overwrought—are what make it worth revisiting, even now.

Lifted from : Reprise publish Ry Cooder’s second album . ‘Into the Purple Valley’ (1972)

10 . James Taylor . Carolina in My Mind

James Taylor’s “Carolina in My Mind” feels less like a song and more like a heartfelt postcard mailed from the depths of homesickness.

Released in 1968, this soft rock ballad captures Taylor’s yearning for the comforts of North Carolina, all while navigating the loneliness of being overseas in Spain.

Its lyrics paint vivid images of longing and bittersweet reflection, with mentions of a Swedish muse named Karin and sly nods to Taylor’s time among the Beatles, who were labelmates under Apple Records.

The production, helmed by Peter Asher, bathes the track in soothing folk-rock tones, recorded with meticulous care at London’s Trident Studios.

Though initially overlooked commercially, peaking at #67 on the Billboard Hot 100, it found renewed life when re-recorded for Taylor’s 1976 *Greatest Hits* album.

What makes the song resonate isn’t just its melody but its understated tension—Taylor’s homesick lyrics sit against a backdrop of calm instrumentation, creating a quiet poignancy.

Whether performed live on *The Old Grey Whistle Test* in 1971 or meditated on years later, the track offers a reminder that sometimes the simplest feelings—like missing home—carry the heaviest weight.

It’s this balance of intimacy and universality that elevates “Carolina in My Mind” to timeless territory, despite its modest chart history.

Lifted from : James Taylor (kind of) rocks Rio . day . (1985)

11 . Donny Hathaway . The Ghetto

Donny Hathaway’s “The Ghetto,” released in 1969, is a sprawling six-minute journey through urban strife and resilience, captured with an unflinching honesty by Hathaway and co-writer Leroy Hutson.

Layering Afro-Cuban rhythms with a soulful jazz groove, the track builds an immersive atmosphere through Hathaway’s ad-libbed vocalizations, animated dialogue, and even the raw cry of his infant daughter, Lalah—an unexpected yet poignant touch that underscores lived experience.

Master Henry Gibson’s conga solo infuses the piece with a pulsating, almost hypnotic texture, propelling the instrumentation into a vibrant interplay of bass lines and electric pianos that illuminate both the energy and struggles of impoverished communities.

Charting modestly at #87 on the Billboard Hot 100 (#23 on the R&B charts), its commercial impact pales in comparison to the song’s cultural significance, later becoming a staple of Hathaway’s live performances thanks to its open-ended improvisatory freedom and audience engagement.

While the commentary on urban marginalization is sobering, the track breaks from despair, weaving a thread of vitality that pulsates through the funk-inspired beats. Hathaway transforms a chaotic struggle into a celebration of resilience, amplified through his emotive delivery and evocative arrangements.

Though it never achieved mainstream heights, “The Ghetto” remains a favorite for crate-diggers and hip-hop artists alike, its grooves enduring in samples like Too Short’s homage of the same name.

From its fluid improvisation to its ground-level perspective, it stands less as a song and more as a musical snapshot of a time and place too often ignored, caught forever in Hathaway’s command of melody and candid honesty.

Lifted from : We remember Donny Hathaway. ‘Donny, . Song For You’

12 . Beck . Devils Haircut

“Devils Haircut,” Beck’s 1996 anti-anthem of cultural malaise, unspools like a collage of contradictions, pairing its scrappy, loop-driven beat with surrealist wordplay that teeters between nonsensical and prophetic.

Housed within the landmark *Odelay* album, the track’s patchwork production by Beck and The Dust Brothers is a sonic playground, borrowing liberally from Pretty Purdie’s *Soul Drums* and Them’s gritty garage riffs—a Frankenstein’s monster of hip-hop swagger and bluesy grit.

Clocking in at #94 on the US Billboard Hot 100 and an infinitely more respectable #23 on the Billboard Modern Rock Tracks chart, the song’s chart trajectory mirrors its curious identity: too weird for pop, too catchy for the underground.

Its accompanying Mark Romanek-directed video, dripping in disjointed urban imagery, snagged MTV’s Best Editing and Best Male Video awards, suggesting the visuals resonated as much as the music itself.

Lyrically evasive and sonically sharp, it’s a track emblematic of late-90s cultural disconnection, laced with Beck’s deadpan irony and an irrepressible urge to mangle consumerist grooves into something defiantly unclassifiable.

Lifted from : Beck ‘rocks in Rio’ (2001)