Saturday Single No. 695

July 4th, 2020

Well, it’s Independence Day, or as they may refer to it in Great Britain, Treason Day.

(Admission: I get mightily peeved in the weeks leading up to today’s holiday when folks who should know better – writers, reporters both print and broadcast, and editors – refer to the holiday as only July Fourth or the Fourth of July. That’s a date, folks. It’s an informal way of referring to the holiday, but the name of the holiday is Independence Day. Use it. Look, I know “independence” is a long word, but deal with it. Be pros. Get it right!)

Rant over.

I’ve long had in my collection of 45s an Everest release, “Independence Day Hora/Like A Young Man,” and I’ve wondered about it ever since it showed up in the early 1960s in one of those “thirteen records for a buck” bags that my sister used to buy at Dayton’s in downtown Minneapolis. I’ve never bothered to look it up until today.

Turns out that the songs come from a 1961 Broadway musical, Milk and Honey, the tales of two American widows touring Israel. The book and music were by Jerry Herman, and the musical earned several Tony nominations (but won none).

The tune on the A-side of the record, it turns out, is one that helps the characters in the musical celebrate Israel’s Independence Day. Given the perfidy of numerous Israeli actions in recent years, there’s a little bit of a bad taste in my mouth as I proceed, but the musical was set in 1961, so we’ll go on. After all, in 1961, neither Herman nor those involved in producing the musical nor the musicians who recorded the 45 in my collection had any idea how Israel would lose its way in the years to come. (Had that nation already lost its way in 1961? I don’t know.)

Beyond all that, it’s the musicians who recorded the Everest single that make it more interesting this morning: Wild Bill Davis, a pianist, organist and arranger; and trumpeter Charlie Shavers. Each has an impressive list of credits at discogs.com and Wikipedia. I imagine I should know more about the two of them than I do. Maybe I’ll take the time to do so, but I fear that like so many other musicians about whom I learn a trifle, their names will fade and I will forget.

The duo also released “Independence Day Hora” and “Like A Young Man” on the 1961 album The Music From Milk & Honey. From what I can tell with a fairly cursory search this morning, neither the album nor the single made any charts.

Anyway, leaving behind all the contradictions and questions, here’s “Independence Day Hora” by Wild Bill Davis and Charlie Shavers. It’s today’s Saturday Single.

A Quick Look at No. 100 (July 1970)

July 3rd, 2020

Having been sidetracked by household duties this morning, I was going to let things slide here, but I nevertheless took a look at the Billboard Hot 100 from the first week of July 1970, fifty years ago.

And, as I do, I took a quick look at No. 100, and I was startled to see “Eve Of Destruction” by the Turtles. Really? In 1970?

I mean, the world wasn’t puppies and roses in 1970 by any measure, but Barry McGuire’s No. 1 hit with the song came in 1965, and five years in pop music and radio terms is an eternity. And things got even more strange when I looked at versions of the song at Second Hand Songs because the Turtles were among the first to record the song in 1965.

The website lists songs by release and lists McGuire’s version as the first released in August 1965. Then comes P.F. Sloan in September, and in October, the Turtles’ version came out on their It Ain’t Me, Babe album (as did a version by a Danish group called Sir Henry & His Butlers).

So the question hangs in the air: Why release an album track from 1965 as a single in 1970, especially of such a topical (and idiosyncratic) song? Whatever the reason was, it didn’t work, as the record spent two weeks at No. 100 and then sank from sight. (It was the Turtles’ last record to hit the Hot 100. In November 1970, “Me About You” bubbled under for three weeks, peaking at No. 105).

Here’s the Turtles’ “Eve Of Destruction.”

And I’m going to offer here the heavily accented cover from 1965 by Sir Henry & His Butlers. I’m especially amused by the enunciation of the letter “v” with a “w” sound (“wiolence” and “woting” instead of “violence” and “voting”). It reminds me of life with my host family in Denmark; during the autumn of 1973, my host mother Oda would see me reading the International Herald-Tribune on Tuesdays and – knowing of my interest in Minnesota’s professional football team – would ask me, “How did the Wikings do this week?”

‘Happy’

July 1st, 2020

The madness out there, it seems, increases every minute. I could list all the things in just the past few days that have enraged me, made me shake my head or made me drop my jaw, but what’s the point? In another ten minutes, or so it seems, another outrage or example of idiocy will come along.

And I haven’t been sleeping well the past few weeks, which leaves my tolerance for all that stuff low. I need something happy.

So here’s one of the few Rolling Stones’ tracks on which Keith Richard sang the lead vocal: “Happy” from 1972. I recall hearing it on the radio a bit that summer (it went to No. 22 in the Billboard Hot 100), so by the time I got my copy of Exile On Main St. a year later, I was already accustomed to the pinched, thin vocal.

Instrumentally, it fits right into the raw and mostly weary aesthetic of Exile, which I think I’ve marked here before as one of the contenders for best rock album of all time (a judgment I came to only in the 1990s after years of listening).

And that’ll have to do it for today.

Saturday Single No. 694

June 27th, 2020

So what do I think of when I see No. 694? Well, I think of the Twin Cities’ Interstate Highway 694, the half-loop that crosses the Twin Cities’ northern and eastern suburbs, providing a way for drivers to avoid I-94’s route through the downtowns of both St. Paul and Minneapolis.

I’ve driven portions of 694 probably hundreds of times, and I lived near it twice, first during the winter of 1975-76, when I was a sports intern for an independent television station in the suburb of Golden Valley, and then during the autumn and winter of 1991-92, when I was beginning my work at the Eden Prairie News, a paper – as I noted not long ago – that no longer exists.

Musically, the earlier time period is more interesting, but of course, it’s not winter right now. We are in the early days of summer, the early days of one of most confounding, confusing and worrisome summers I can ever remember. It’s quite a contrast to the summer of ’75, my last undergraduate summer, when I was twenty-one, knew what I was doing, knew where I was going, and thought I knew what I would find there when I arrived.

Hah!

So let’s twist this up and take a look at the top ten in the Billboard Hot 100 for the fourth week of June 1975, when – except for having a steady girl – absolute certainty ruled my life:

“Love Will Keep Us Together” by the Captain & Tennille
“When Will I Be Loved/It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” by Linda Ronstadt
“Wildfire” by Michael (Martin) Murphey
“I’m Not Lisa” by Jessi Colter
“Love Won’t Let Me Wait” by Major Harris
“The Hustle” by Van McCoy & The Soul City Symphony
“Listen To What The Man Said” by Paul McCartney & Wings
“Get Down, Get Down (Get On The Floor)” by Joe Simon
“Magic” by Pilot
“Cut The Cake” by the Average White Band

Boy, those first eight singles are imprinted musically and with memories, the Ronstadt double-sided single a little less than the other six. They remind me of working with my pal Murl and the rest of the inventory crew, cruising through my four physical education courses and my last general eds, hanging around The Table with a slightly changed cast (summer sessions were different), sipping coffee at the Country Kitchen with a variety of young women . . .

It was one of the great summers of my life, now forty-five years in the past.

As to the last three of that Top Ten, I remember the records by Pilot (currently adapted to sell a pharmaceutical) and the Average White Band, but they never meant much to me. And I had to go to YouTube this morning to verify that I don’t recall the Joe Simon single. My listening those days was mostly WJON and WCCO-FM on the radio, and the jukebox at the student union, and I don’t think those three gave the Simon a lot of play.

So, how many of those seven records are on my day-to-day playlist forty-five years later? Let’s look at the iPod (still a work in progress after firing up the new computer). Turns out that only the Jessi Colter single got into the device during the early sessions. But by the end of the morning, five more of those in that Top Ten – the rest of the top seven except the Ronstadts – will be in the device.

Our final business this morning, as long as we’re here, will be to look at the bottom rung of that long-ago Hot 100 and see what we find. And I’m reminded that no matter how long I’ve dug into music, there will always be something new to find. The No. 100 record forty-five years ago this week was “What Time Of Day” by Billy Thunderkloud & The Chieftones.

Thunderkloud and his band were a country group made up of First Nations musicians from British Columbia, and they were backed on the single – obviously – by a children’s chorus. It’s a pleasant little tune but no more than that, and it peaked at only No. 92 on the Hot 100. It did better than that on the other charts, getting to No. 32 on the magazine’s Easy Listening chart and to No. 16 on the country chart. (Later in the year, the group hit No. 37 on the country chart with “Pledging My Love,” a cover of the 1955 hit for both Johnny Ace and Theresa Brewer.)

Here’s “What Time Of Day.”

‘For Your Love’

June 26th, 2020

I imagine that the first time I heard the Yardbirds’ “For Your Love” was on a friend’s radio sometime after summer vacation began in late May or early June 1965. The KDWB surveys at Oldiesloon tell me that the record debuted at No. 40 in the station’s “Fabulous Forty” on May 22 that year, just a week after it reached the Billboard Hot 100.

It moved quickly at KDWB, reaching No. 34 and No. 14 during the next weeks and then peaking at No. 8 in the June 12 survey. It then hung around for another six weeks before falling out of the KDWB survey at the end of July.

Sometimes when I hear the record these days, I have a quick vision of the halls of South Junior High, and it’s possible I heard the record there or at least nearby, as that was the summer between sixth and seventh grades, and I went to a couple of so-called enrichment classes – beginning Spanish and cooking, I think – at South during June and July.

Anyway, I was aware of the record, and I liked it, though like almost all pop rock at the time, I would not have known whose record it was. (A quick look at the June 12 KDWB survey – when “For Your Love” peaked – shows only two or three records for which I might have been able to name the performer: the Beatles’ “Ticket To Ride,” Glenn Yarbrough’s “Baby The Rain Must Fall,” and maybe the Seekers’ “A World Of Our Own.”

The first version of the tune I ever owned came a bit later when my sister gave me – for my birthday or Christmas; it’s a bit foggy – a copy of Herman’s Hermits’ On Tour album. The Hermits’ cover of “For Your Love” was recorded only a few months after the Yardbird’s version and is quite a bit less intense than that original.

(It’s worth noting here that the song was written by Graham Gouldman, who, among other things, was a member of 10cc.)

Other covers followed, of course, from Gary Lewis & The Playboys in August 1965 to – according to Second Hand Songs – a group called Cracks last year. A search with the RealPlayer finds six tracks titled “For Your Love” on the digital shelves here. Two of them – by Gwen McRae (1975) and by the Romantic Saxophone Quintet (2005) are not Gouldman’s song.

Otherwise, we find the versions by the Yardbirds and Herman’s Hermits, a lackluster cover of the tune by Fleetwood Mac from the 1973 album Mystery To Me, and a cover by the London Symphony Orchestra. That last is one of numerous tracks of pop rock songs the orchestra recorded beginning – from what I can tell – in 1983. There were in total five CDs worth of such work, I think, and I somehow came across a compilation pulled from those five CDs.

Here’s the London Symphony Orchestra’s take on “For Your Love.” It’s from the 1983 album Classic Rock: Rock Symphonies (repackaged later as part of a five-CD set).

All At One Time

June 24th, 2020

Sometime way back (likely about ten years ago, but I’m not going to go dig), I wrote that one of the benefits of the digital age was getting away from the album format and being able to structure a playlist of separate tracks.

Back in the LP days, if there was a horrendous track right in the middle of Side One of a generally great album (friends of mine in those days might have nominated “Octopus’ Garden” on Abbey Road), one had to either endure the track or go to the turntable and actually lift the tone arm to set it down at the start of the next track.

As I explored that idea back then, I wrote something (maybe) about being freed from vinyl tyranny.

About six months ago, as I puttered here in my corner of our downstairs room. I thought, “Y’know, it might be nice to listen to Abbey Road all in order.” (Or it might have been Blood On The Tracks or maybe A Question Of Balance.) I had two ways to do that. There’s a large CD player on the other side of my desk, but I’d have to pull the CD from its spot in the stacks and walk around the desk and the keyboard.

Or I could have the search function in the RealPlayer find the tracks that made up the album and place them in running order and then listen.

And then I wondered: Does my new CD ripper allows me to rip an entire CD into one mp3? For years, I’d used a freeware program that allowed me to do that. I’d not done entire albums but I’d done large mp3s of suites, like the medleys on Side Two of (again) Abbey Road. And maybe five years ago, when I got a new computer, that freeware program and Windows 10 didn’t like each other. So for a few years, I used RealPlayer to rip mp3s, and as much as I like most of what that program does, its ripping function is clunky and slow.

But about eighteen months ago – six months before this inner conversation took place – I’d invested in a new suite of mp3 management tools, including an mp3 ripper. I’d not dug into it very much, as I was still trying to catch up on replacing the single mp3 rips lost in my external drive crash the autumn before we moved. Maybe it had a function to rip whole CDs as one mp3.

Well, as readers might expect (or there would be no point to telling the story), it does, and at odd times over the last six months, I’ve been doing just that.

There are currently eighty-seven tracks tagged “Full Album” on the digital shelves. The selection is heavy with the Moody Blues (part of the long-delayed project here reviewing all of their albums), Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan. None of that is a surprise, I’m certain. Those are my mainstays, along with the Beatles, who will soon have many more albums in the section than they do now.

What I find more interesting are some of the other artists whose works have come to mind and wound up in the “Full Albums” section: Three Counting Crows albums from the 1990s; two from 1969 and 1970 by Brewer & Shipley; Jim Croce’s three major label releases from the early 1970s; three by Dan Fogelberg from the 1970s (one of those with flautist Tim Weisberg); two from the 1970s British folkie Shelagh McDonald; Dusty Springfield’s Dusty In Memphis; Steve Winwood’s Arc Of A Diver; and David Gray’s 200 album Babylon, just to mention a few.

I let the albums play on random as I read news or putter or play tabletop baseball. I don’t always listen purposefully, but I hear the music roll by (just like it used to in the rec room back home on Kilian Boulevard), and I’m learning some things: I don’t really like Roxy Music’s Avalon beyond “More Than This” and the title track. The Fogelbergs wear thin after a few listens. August And Everything After by Counting Crows is a far better album than I recall. So, too, is The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range. And Steely Dan’s Aja remains a sonic masterpiece.

It’s a long-range project, adding three or four a week. Where will it end? I dunno. Right now, I still have more than two terabytes free on the external hard drive. Will I get rid of the CDs and LPs if I get them all ripped as albums? Hell, no.

Here’s a full album from 1989 I posted at YouTube almost three years ago that will soon be in the “Full Album” folder on the digital shelves: Evidence by Boo Hewerdine and Darden Smith, one of my favorite obscurities.

Saturday Single No. 693

June 20th, 2020

In a world that seems off-kilter, I’m a little off-kilter myself, not quite centered.

The whirlwind of events in recent months and weeks is a major part of that, but I’d also have to put the death this week of my Danish host mother in the mix. Add to that the fact that I’ve not been sleeping well for about a month (and when I do sleep, I have vivid and sometimes disturbing dreams).

And then, I have a few physical aches and pains, and it all means that I’m not in great shape. But I’m going to take this weekend to try to refresh myself, try to mend my body and get myself in as good a frame of mind as I can.

Noting that today and tomorrow are a weekend is part of that; numerous times in the past twelve or so weeks, the Texas Gal and I have found it hard to keep track of time. “What day of the week is it?” has been a common question around our home. Today, I know, is Saturday, and one small thing will help it feel like a Saturday: The Belmont Stakes will be run today. Yes, it’s disorienting that this year, the Belmont is the first Triple Crown race to take place, but its running still provides a small bit of normality.

Another bit of normality that’s made me feel better is that my regular barber shop, Barbers On Germain, has opened for appointments. I made my way there yesterday and had Russ take care of the thin thatch on my head and the unruly, almost Karl Marxian foliage on my face. I feel better for it.

So that’s one small bit of better.

And sorting through the digital shelves, I was reminded of a 1971 track that showed up among the extras on the 40th anniversary edition of Derek & The Dominos’ album Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs: “Got To Get Better In A Little While.” Here it is, today’s Saturday Single.

Farvel

June 19th, 2020

Some sad news came from Denmark the other week: Ejvind, my host brother during my long-ago college year there, let me know that his mother, Oda, was in very ill health and her journey would end soon.

I wept a little as I absorbed the news, and I wept more yesterday, after Ejvind told me that Oda’s journey had in fact come to an end about 5 a.m. Danish time (about 10 p.m. Central Time Wednesday).

Oda and her husband Kristen were my host parents for almost five months during my 1973-74 stay in Fredericia – I spent the final months of the year either on the road or living in the youth hostel St. Cloud State rented for the year – and they were, well, an essential part of my life. Being parents of college-age children themselves at the time – Ejvind was attending a university in the city of Århus, about sixty miles away, and his sister Birgit was taking what we now call a gap year in the U.S. – they were well equipped for the enthusiasms and occasional turbulence of living with a young man away from home for the first time.

Their advice, their caring, and their occasional firm direction were all major parts of that time for me, a time that was – as I’ve said here before – the single greatest formative experience of my life. Being part of that experience made Oda and Kristen among the most important people I’ve known in my life.

Kristen died during the 1990s, when I was pretty much out of touch with everyone, and thus I never had an opportunity to either grieve his passing or extend my condolences to Oda, Ejvind and Birgit (the last of whom I have never actually met, as she was in the U.S while I lived in Fredericia). I’ve been messaging some with Ejvind and Birgit in the past day, and they know how I feel about Oda’s passing.

As I grieve, I remember things. I recall the tradition of evening tea, when Oda would brew herself and me some Earl Grey and make a small cup of very strong coffee for Kristen. We’d sit in the living room, share some pastry – Oda worked downtown near a bakery and made sure we had fresh treats every evening – and talk about whatever came to mind. A lot of what I know about Danish culture and living came from those evening chats.

Oda offered motherly wisdom at several points during my months in their home as I struggled with both a first romance and homesickness. She and Kristen opened their home to my friends, helping me and my St. Cloud State girlfriend host a Thanksgiving dinner for them and several of our friends, and they regularly invited my friends in for other dinners and evening gatherings.

tableclothRecalling those gatherings yesterday reminded me of Oda’s tablecloth. When guests visited for the first time, they were invited to sign their names in pencil on the white tablecloth. Later, Oda would embroider their signatures into the cloth. In the picture here, you can see Oda – on the left – watching as my friends Dewey (center) and Matt sign their names on the tablecloth.

My signature is on that tablecloth, as are the signatures of maybe eight of my friends – including Dewey and Matt – who came visiting during the months I lived with Kristen and Oda. I sent the picture to Ejvind yesterday, and he told me that his daughter Marie has the tablecloth and that it’s still in use. (He, a year or two older than I, noted that some of the signatures on it predate his birth.)

The last time I saw Oda – or Kristen – was on my last evening in Fredericia in May 1974. I had dinner at their home, and they drove me back to the youth hostel at about 9 that evening. Before they left, Oda embraced me and said “Det er ikke farvel. Vi ses igen.”

“This is not goodbye. We will see each other again.”

Sadly, life did not allow that to come true. In another turn around the wheel, perhaps.

Until then, farvel.

Minor correcton made June 20, 2020.

The Last ‘Time’

June 17th, 2020

Somewhere around the beginning of 1965, my dad subscribed to Time magazine. I seem to recall President Lyndon Johnson on one of the first covers that we saw. And I imagine that I – then eleven years old – poked through each of the magazine’s weekly editions a little bit as they came through the mail slot.

Dad read each week’s edition carefully, a few pages each evening before bedtime. And a lot of what he – and I, when I took advantage – read was something we found nowhere else: coverage that supplemented the St. Cloud and Minneapolis newspapers with a wider variety of national and international news. (That news came, I now know, with a great helping of Timesnark, the right-wing and elite attitudes fostered in the weekly by founder Henry Luce just forty years earlier.)

(Some of that coverage we might have been able to get from any of the evening news shows, but watching television news was not part of our evening routines. The only broadcast news we absorbed on Kilian Boulevard during the 1960s and early 1970s was the CBS News morning report on WCCO radio, generally running in the background as we had breakfast and prepared for school and work.)

As I grew into a news junkie, I read the magazine more and more frequently. Once I started college, I added regular reading of Newsweek at the St. Cloud State library, and a few years later, when I left home for the world of work, that’s the magazine I subscribed to, seeing it as less snarky and slightly more hip to pop culture.

Still, at Kilian Boulevard, Time fell through the mail slot every week. Sometimes Dad would pass them on to me; during my college year in Denmark, he clipped stories he thought would interest me and packaged them weekly with clippings from the daily newspapers and Sports Illustrated to keep me entertained and at least a little up-to-date. (Those thick envelopes, probably about thirty of them, are still with me, tucked away in a box full of other stuff I brought back from my adventure in Denmark.)

And week after week, month after month, year after year, the magazine kept coming to Kilian Boulevard. When Dad died in 2003, I helped Mom change the account into her name. And the magazine would eventually come to her at her Waite Park home, at her Ridgeview Place assisted living apartment, and finally, at Prairie Ridge, the facility’s memory care unit.

Somewhere during the last years of her life, Mom had renewed her subscription to Time into mid-2020, when she would be 98 years old. (I think she got stung by one of those companies that offers to renew a subscription and then charges an additional $50 or so for the renewal.) Anyway, after Mom died, I just switched the subscription into my name, and Time kept coming to the East Side and, most recently, to the North Side.

When Dad first subscribed during the mid-1960s, a news consumer’s options beyond daily newspapers were limited. There was some radio news, three national television broadcasts at dinnertime and the three main newsmagazines, Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News & World Report. And Dad read his editions of Time from cover to cover.

Now, in 2020, the information that Time brings me is dated. I have twenty-four-hour news from multiple sources on my TV and my computer. I glance at the first few pages of each edition, but almost always, it gets set aside and sits on my end table until the next weekly edition arrives. There’s nothing wrong with the magazine’s coverage – it quit being snarky (for the most part) years ago – but in general, the magazine offers nothing I can’t get elsewhere for a cheaper price. So I haven’t renewed the subscription.

That’s why the edition of Time that came late last week will be – I think – the last one. (I maybe wrong, and one more may come my way, but no more than that, I’m sure.)

After Mom died in 2017, we sold her things, closed accounts at her bank and elsewhere, disconnected her telephone and took care of other, similar, tasks. I think the subscription to Time is the last bit left of Mom and Dad’s life on Kilian Boulevard. And after more than fifty-five years and about 2,880 weekly editions, that’s ending this month.

Here are the Pozo-Seco Singers and their 1966 track “Time.” (I thought about the Rolling Stones’ “The Last Time,” but I’ve never really liked the record.)

Saturday Single No. 692

June 13th, 2020

Boy, I was beginning to think that any record I ever wanted to hear was available in a video at YouTube.

Well, not quite. Four months ago, when I wanted to share here a version of “Goldfinger” by easy listening musician Jack LaForge, I had to make a video and upload it. But that was a niche thing, and understandable. And three of the other four videos I’ve created and uploaded in the last two years were niche things that one wouldn’t expect to find. The fourth was a Joe Cocker tune that I put up because I couldn’t find the official version on that particular day. (I’m sure it was there but I got frustrated and made my own video.)

How niche-y were the other three videos? They were two singles – “Never Goin’ Home” by Owen B. and “Summer Sunshine” by Misty Morn – and a repackaging of “Going The Distance” and “The Final Bell,” the soundtrack music by Bill Conti that backs the climactic fight and its aftermath in the original Rocky from 1976.

(And the music from Rocky may not be as niche-y as I once thought; since I put the video of Conti’s music on YouTube a year ago, it’s been viewed three million times, which makes it by far the most popular of the 500 or so videos I’ve put up; second place goes to the video of “Bittersweet” by Big Head Todd & The Monsters, which has been viewed 1.9 million times.)

Otherwise, over the past two years, anything I wanted to share in this space has been available on YouTube. But the website failed me this morning.

Just before I started writing, I opened my iTunes library and clicked around and then posted a link at Facebook to Sweathog’s 1971 cover of “Hallelujah.” And I wondered about versions of the song I might not have heard. Beyond Sweathog’s cover, I have the Clique’s 1970 original and Chi Coltrane’s 1973 version.

So I went to Second Hand Songs and learned about two other covers, one by a group called Lovequake in 1976 and one by Dobie Gray in 1970. The Lovequake one didn’t intrigue me at the moment – we may get back to it – but the thought of Dobie Gray taking on the song? Oh, yeah.

It’s not at YouTube. It’s not at Amazon. It’s not at iTunes. I learned at discogs that “Hallelujah” was the B-side to “Honey, You Can’t Take It Back” on the White Whale label, but so far, the only copies of the single I’ve seen for sale are promos with “Honey, You Can’t Take It Back” on both sides.

I probably won’t dig any further, but damn, it would have been nice to hear Dobie’s take on the song. I’m going to default to Coltrane’s version of the tune, even though I’ve likely shared it before. It was on her 1973 album Let It Ride, and it’s today’s Saturday Single.