Revisiting A&M Records No. 35
Tommy Boyce & Bobby Hart:
‘I Wonder What She’s Doing Tonite?’ (April ’68)
I have only two quibbles over this pretty close to perfect proto-power-pop platter, the sort of still-sparkling gem you just know bands like Jellyfish and the Posies pored over at some point.
First nit to pick is the punctuation at the end of the title.
C’mon, guys: do you or don’t you? It needn’t be a question, especially since the song of the same name isn’t.
You’re wasting time wondering, anyway.
She’s right behind both of you, inviting as a boudoir pinup.
My other problem: Why was anything on this album written by anyone not named Boyce or Hart?
During the mid-‘60s the duo fast became noteworthy tunesmiths and savvy producers. This disc’s title track, released as a teaser just before Christmas ’67, may have been the only recording of theirs to hit big, cracking the Top 10 before the full-length set dropped in spring. But by then they’d already penned a slew of smashes for the Monkees. They had no more need to rely on outside material than Lennon & McCartney did.
That’s why ending Side 1 with ‘Two for the Price of One,’ a playful boast Larry Williams & Johnny Watson put out only a few months earlier, is so frustrating.
Not saying I wouldn’t boogaloo to its hand-clapping groove or chuckle at its cheeky slang (Bobby’s the ‘love bandit,’ Tommy’s falsely crowned the ‘gangster of love’ years before Steve Miller would claim the same). But that doesn’t make it any less a silly throwaway on a record teeming with memorable stuff.
In all likelihood, given the speed of releases back then, they were rushed, perma-pressed for freshness both for themselves and the Prefab Four. In retrospect, though, this was undeniably their most perfectly timed stab at greatness — and they marred their own brilliance by tacking on a B-side.
Like they used to say: it puts me uptight.
Borrowing back ‘I Wanna Be Free’ is excusable, and improved by recasting its meaning. But surely it wouldn’t have been so hard to cobble together one more Stones-y pastiche, like how ‘Pretty Flowers’ cribs the halting harpsichord breaks of ‘She’s a Rainbow’ or ‘Population’ (their longest and most political piece) mimics ‘The Last Time’ having its ‘19th Nervous Breakdown.’
They always were amalgamators more than originators, trend-spotters more than -setters. At their finest, however — and at least eight or nine of these songs qualify, from garage-rock tokers like ‘Teardrop City’ to baroque lovelies like ‘The Countess’ and ‘Goodbye Baby (I Don’t Want to See You Cry’ — their confections were so infectious they could sometimes sneak into the ranks of the greats