As the story goes, Rick Hyde, who later compiled the compelling, have-to-have-if-you-love-this-music, four disc “Doo Wop Box,” was sitting in a Miami Beach bar in the 80s. It was well past midnight, and he was trying to convince a well-heeled record exec to underwrite a compilation of old R & B groups.
At some point, he tried to explain the phenomenon of The Orioles, one of the seminal early Doo Wop ensembles.
At which juncture, the eavesdropping barkeep, a white woman who would have to be an octogenarian these days, interjected, “Oh my God, The Orioles! That Sonny Til!” Then she broke into a verse the group’s signature tune, “It’s Too Soon To Know.”
The voice of Sonny Til — born Earlington Tilghman — was as smooth and sweet as warm butter and hot maple syrup, the real stuff that oozes from trees, not faux breakfast syrup. The kind of voice that, in the post WWII era, turned teen girls, even those in the conservative heartland, wet and dewy, regardless of their heartfelt proclamation to save themselves for their wedding night.
Forty years later, that lady behind the bar remembered the moist. With extreme fondness.
(I remember my spine turning to icicles when, after not hearing it for more than a decade, I heard my favorite Doo Wop tune, The Volumes’ “I Love You,” sometime in the late 80s at a record store. It still gives me chills.)
Doo Wop, truly groundbreaking, of all the subsets of rock & roll is probably the most misunderstood, the most under-appreciated.
It’s usually defined by a significant bass voice out front, a falsetto lead, sumptuously harmonized backing, consisting often of a nonsensical conglomeration of melodic syllables, pledges of eternal troth, naive innocence, tales of unrequited love.
A most democratic kind of singing, a lot of times, the “classics,” the “oldies but goodies,” were sung marginally off key (there were lots of amateur one hit wonders), a lot of the time a cappella, or with maybe just a guitar, a piano or an organ instrumentation.
Doo Wop evolved from the Negro gospel groups, and popular contingents, like the Ink Spots and Mills Brothers. Who spawned groups like the Orioles and others. They aimed their tunes at a younger audience, who in the 50s were yearning for music they could call their own. It started on the “Race” charts, later dubbed “Rhythm & Blues,” with seepage to the mainstream and adoring acceptance and admiration from white teens.
Inevitably, it permeated pop culture, setting the stage for the “forefathers” — Elvis, Fats, Bo, Jerry Lee, et al — who were soon to appear. Groups were literally formed under street lamps, on the corner, in locker rooms and in subway stations. Not only in New York, which seemed the epicenter of the genre, but in concrete urban canyons across the country.
If you cared about music — guilty — you tried to sing it. I fashioned a doo wop version of the Everly’s “Bye Bye Love,” which I sang only with and to myself in the shower. The one outside stab I recall, was trying to harmonize with Stinky Davis on “Little Star” at a party in Susie Becker’s backyard. It may have been “Hushabye.” Our career, such as it was, evaporated somewhere after the second verse, when the hot dogs on the grill were finally ready.
Because the subject matter of Doo Wop was so similar to that pop music which came before — love and longing and the oft painful ramifications they engender — it is considered by some as pre-rock & roll.
Not so. Because it evolved rhythmically. And the insinuation of ooh wah doo wah shanga langa shinga bop and rama lama ding dong confirmed its status as the forerunner of new teen music. Vocalizing strictures were shattered.
One of the ways, the music claimed new territory, declaring its independence, was by covering standards uniquely. Sure, there were those done the old way, like, say, Tony Williams and the Platters crooning “Harbor Lights.” Or, the Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes For You.”
Then came the ones that pushed the envelope. Like The Marcels’ version of “Blue Moon.” (Billy Stewart’s “Summertime” is another skewered example, if not really Doo Wop.) The more our parents cringed when the songs they loved were contemporized, the more the new generation embraced the new paradigm.
* * * * *
But, you know what, ladies and gents, I could take up your time all day, pontificating about Doo Wop, giving a more detailed history, attempting to convince you of its beauty and importance, but, another time maybe.
One of the classics of the day was “Unchained Melody,” a treacly ballad that was a wedding standard almost immediately after it hit the scene in ’55, as the title tune of a film.
Oh, my love, my darling/ I’ve hungered for your touch/ A long, lonely time/
Time goes by so slowly/ And time can do so much/ Are you still mine?/ I need your love/ I need your love/ God speed your love to me
So, after relatively straight forward, arguably sappy, swoon-inducing versions from the likes of Sinatra and Al Hibbler . . . there is simply no explaining what or how or whatdahell Vito Balsamo and the second incarnation of the Salutations (Randy Silverman, Shelly Bucharsky, Lenny Citrin, Frankie Fox) were thinking when they fashioned the sentimental, almost mawkish croon of “Unchained Melody” into . . .
. . . into . . . well . . . into . . . this head-scratching, incomprehensibly glorious mashup:
I mean, really, you tell me, how does one try to explain that triple-time rapture?
Yeah, that’s right, one doesn’t.
We simply listen, don’t fight the time zone wide grin evolving on our faces, shake our heads, and enjoy.
As outré as this rendition of the song remains, the group’s story itself is classic Doo Wop. It is said the original Salutations, were discovered by a woman with record connections named Linda Scott, while they were harmonizing in — yes it’s twu, it’s twu — a subway station in Brooklyn. (Oh the echo!!!) She got them in touch with a manager named David Rich, who connected them with the then 14 year Vito Balsamo.
They cut a record or two, broke up — Is this a story often told, or what? — then the new Salutations, the ones who crafted this song, were formed.
Little is reported as to how the group’s unique song styling came about. It’s left to the imagination. We are told they practiced a lot in the boys room at Jefferson High.
The group, like most Doo Wop ensembles, faded into its own parade with the onslaught of the British Invasion.
Resurfacing during the revivals of the 70s and 80s. Of course, the story of Vito & the Salutations wouldn’t be complete without mention of the inevitable lawsuit between the singers and manager over who owned the name.
Anyway, their version of “Unchained Melody” has a truly unique spot in the pantheon of Doo Wop. It remains as bracing and original today as it did upon release in the 60s.
And, if you’re interested in some perspective, here’s a nifty nine minute history of the song, “Unchained Melody.”
Needless to say, as beautiful as many of those many versions are, none are quite as memorable as that of Vito & the Salutations, a Doo Wop classic if ever there was one.
This is the third in a series of rock & roll essays. The first on the song “Astral Weeks” can be read here. The second on Marah’s “Round Eye Blues” can be found here.