The Association came along at the very moment that the vast universe of “rock ’n’ roll” was being redefined as “rock” and “everything else.” Psychedelia was hardening into “acid rock” or diffusing into “sunshine pop.” At the outset, the “Six Man Band” was hard to define — preppy-looking guys who sang about psychedelics. A few years later, two massive ballads had put them clearly in the Soft Rock camp — the subset of “rock” with no rock cred. These days, bands again travel between the hip and unhip with relative ease; at the time, the Association were one of the first acts left behind when the borders closed.
“Windy,” one of the songs that defined music’s transition in 1967, was one of the earliest songs I loved. Later, that translated into The Association’s Greatest Hits being one of the first albums I played repeatedly. When Association lead singer Terry Kirkman died this week, I found the first obits annoyingly thin, and the appreciations not so appreciative. But as a low-key band whose hits coincide with the very dawn of rock journalism, there wasn’t much for subsequent generations to delve into.
Veteran music writer/historian and Ross on Radio editor Ken Barnes has a more thorough opinion on the band than most. Barnes is in the process of writing about his entire singles collection in alphabetical order, meaning that the Association’s entire discography was one of the relative early entries in the forthcoming 45 Revelations.
As a glimpse into his project, and an attempt to give a more complete look at the band than I’ve seen elsewhere, here’s Barnes’s song-by-song chronicle of the Association. Some readers, even if they’ve gotten this far, will care mostly about “Along Comes Mary,” “Cherish,” “Windy,” and “Never My Love.” But even the Association’s first single — a folk cover you’re likely to associate with a very different band — says a lot about how music changed during their brief hitmaking streak.
Here’s what Barnes wrote about that first single and others. (Much of the history, he says, is sourced from the notes for the band’s anthology, Just the Right Sound, by Dawn Eden and Bill Inglot.) – Sean Ross
Babe I’m Gonna Leave You/Baby Can’t You Hear Me Call Your Name (Jubilee 5505) 1965
In a career of over a half-century and counting, the Association had just five top-10 hits, but three of them were such colossi that they may inflate the group’s importance when the ‘60s pop scene is viewed through the kaleidoscope of hindsight. On the other hand, the Association’s strait-laced appearance – at least in the early days, the members wore suits and were generally neatly coiffed, the ultimate ’60s rock heresy (accent on the first syllable) – and middle-of-the-road acceptance may have caused a widespread, largely undeserved underrating for an act whose creativity is often ignored.
Singer Terry Kirkman and guitarist Jules Gary Alexander catalyzed the formation of an ad hoc amateur folk group in L.A. in 1964. Tryouts for a professional version of the group produced an unwieldy 13-man aggregation called, unimaginatively, the Men, which became the house band at West Hollywood’s long-running Troubadour club, then a folk venue that by the end of 1964 was incorporating a few rock-tinged acts.
A meeting to discuss future direction resulted in a number of defections, bringing the ranks of the Men down to six, who in 1965 changed the act’s name to the Association. Besides Kirkman and Alexander, the group comprised former folkies Ted Bluechel (drums), Brian Cole (bass), Russ Giguere (guitar), and Bob Page, a guitarist whose sole credit is as co-arranger of the first A-side before he was replaced by Jim Yester, brother of Modern Folk Quartet member and future Lovin’ Spoonfuller Jerry Yester.
Seeking a record deal, the Association somehow wound up on New York-based indie Jubilee, apparently because of turn-downs from most other labels. The group adapted a song from a Joan Baez album that would later appear on Led Zeppelin’s first LP, giving it a doomy arrangement unusual for the nascent folk-rock form in its emphasis on a downward bass progression and full-throated, intricate vocal interplay.
One Too Many Mornings/Forty Times (Valiant 730) 1965
The Jubilee single having gone nowhere, a contract release was effected and the Association signed with the L.A. indie Valiant, which had scored a few national hits, notably “Rhythm of the Rain” by the Cascades. Sticking with the folk-rock bag, the group followed the default procedure of the movement – recording a Bob Dylan song. It’s one of this oft-recorded Dylan tune’s first covers, and imposes a jangly discipline on the folky original largely through the group’s patented massed harmonies, although a couple of falsetto flights in the lead are jarring. Alexander’s B-side is an unusual venture into garage-rock, combining throbbing harmonica; tough guitars; a pastoral, harmony-cushioned bridge; and a beat closely related to the Sir Douglas Quintet’s “She’s About a Mover” – clearly a forgotten gem.
Along Comes Mary/Your Own Love (Valiant 741) 1966
A young producer, Curt Boettcher, who’d worked with Tommy Roe, entered the Association’s orbit, along with a song by Tandyn Almer on whose demo Boettcher and Alexander had played. It was an instant breakout, dominating West Coast airwaves before smoking its way into the national top 10, and capturing the budding countercultural zeitgeist of that most eclectic of ’60s years, 1966. The sound was lightly jazzy, complete with a recorder solo – a long distance from folk and not all that similar to most of the prevailing rock, closer in spirit at times to easy-listening syncopaters such as Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66. But the topic, however elliptically addressed, was fairly clearly marijuana, just as it was starting its transition from the hipsters to the high schools. Yester’s lead nimbly handles the song’s tongue-twisters, the Wrecking Crew plays crisply, and a period classic was spawned.
Cherish/Don’t Blame the Rain (Valiant 747) 1966
If the Association’s goal with “Along Comes Mary” had to been to establish its credentials as the hippest of the hip, any hopes of sustaining that reputation were dashed by the follow-up. It’s quite probable that such a loss of underground cool bothered the band not in the slightest, as Kirkman’s ballad “Cherish,” which he’d intended to peddle to the Righteous Brothers, became a multiple-week No. 1, an ironic wedding standard, and one of the most-played songs of the ’60s and their aftermath. It is still one of the more exquisitely realized hyper-romantic songs in the rock era repertoire, thanks to effectively understated production, sumptuous harmonies, and a song-long dramatic build. Slightly disturbing: the part about wishing “I could mold you into someone who would cherish me as much as I cherish you,” but that can, it’s hoped, be chalked up to an excess of devotion. Your call.
Pandora’s Golden Heebie Jeebies/Standing Still (Valiant 755) 1966
Valiant was acquired by Warner Bros., and the larger label was presented with one of the all-time drastic left turns from an act following up a massive mass-appeal No. 1 hit. Alexander’s “Pandora,” produced by Yester’s brother Jerry, is lyrically bleak, possibly suicidal (at least resigned to death), set to a delicate, Eastern-sounding pop-psych melody with vaguely koto-like chimes. It’s perfectly lovely, but how it infiltrated the top 20, even coasting on the momentum of “Cherish,” remains a mystery.
No Fair at All/Looking Glass (Valiant 758) 1967
The payback came on the next single, Jim Yester’s “No Fair at All,” which just missed the top 50 despite aspiring to the MOR lushness of “Cherish.” There’s another flute solo, but a melody and message as indelible as the earlier hit’s aren’t in evidence. The B-side came close to charting on the top 100 when the label attempted to salvage some sort of hit from the release; it’s a stronger song, at its peak slightly suggestive of the full-bodied pop-rock aspects of Pet Sounds.
Windy/Sometime (Warner Bros. 7041) 1967
The Valiant label wound down operations and the Association switched to the parent WB imprint, bringing along a new producer – Bones Howe, a veteran engineer transitioning to production with the 5th Dimension and the Turtles – and a new guitarist, former New Christy Minstrel Larry Ramos, replacing Alexander, who wandered off to India in search of mystical enlightenment. The song came from young singer-songwriter Ruthann Friedman, who became a cult favorite for her own, scarce records, and it was another multi-week No. 1.
“Windy” also pretty much obliterated any shreds of countercultural credibility the Association retained (the group’s performance at the Monterey Pop Festival about a month after the single’s release is not one of the event’s epochal moments). “Windy” runs on flower-power, but like a lot of the sunshine pop that followed, it’s a not-so-long, not-so-strange day trip for tourists, not heads. Discounting again for sustained overexposure, it’s also an insidious earworm blessed with classic sunshine-pop harmonies and harpsichords, plus a flute-like recorder solo.
Never My Love/Requiem for the Masses (Warner Bros. 7074) 1967
Speaking of overexposure, the follow-up is a contender for the championship – in fact, it was ranked by BMI as the second-most-broadcast song of the 20th Century. The band had recorded “Never My Love” with previous producer Jerry Yester, but when co-composer Don Addrisi, who wrote the song with his brother, Dick, brought it up again during the initial Bones Howe sessions, his opening guitar lick sealed the deal for the band to recut it, emphasizing those five simple but indelible notes. More syrupy than even “Cherish,” it became the group’s third No. 1 (though, oddly considering its enduring status, only on one chart, Cash Box). The B-side is worth checking – a complex antiwar lament from Kirkman featuring ecclesiastical harmonies, the whole thing strangely foreshadowing Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
Everything That Touches You/We Love Us (Warner Bros. 7163) 1968
Kirkman also wrote the follow-up to the two top-of-the-pops hits from 1967, and their combined momentum aided its rise to the top 10. The flutes are back, as are the blissful sentiments and – the usual saving grace – the lavish harmonies. They’re not quite in the Beach Boys’ league, but compare favorably with anyone else working that particular pop vein.
Time for Livin’/Birthday Morning (Warner Bros. 7195) 1968
“Everything” turned out to be the last top-10 hit for the group; another Addrisi Brothers composition, “Time for Livin’,” stopped short of the top 20. “Time for Livin’” represents the cloying side of sunshine pop – predictable good-time tune, sappy lyrics, unceasing bah-bah-bahs. Another massive hit that came out a couple of weeks later could have been the Association’s own – the band members and Howe had rejected a lengthy composition (reputedly 20 minutes or so) from Jimmy Webb that incorporated the song that became Richard Harris’s “MacArthur Park.” The Association would have killed with that song, had the band not elected to kill the idea beforehand.
Six Man Band/Like Always (Warner Bros. 7229) 1968
Around the time of this Kirkman number, a top-30 hit, the Association became a seven-man band, electing to retain Ramos when Alexander returned from his wanderjahr. “Six Man” is a last-gasp stab at rock, heavy sustain on the prominent guitars and a clipped rhythm, bolstering an ambitious autobiographical lyric. Certainly, it’s the band’s most interesting record since “Pandora,” and it ranks as one of the best. Although it qualified as a hit at the time, it marked another step downward in the ensemble’s fall from commercial grace.
Goodbye Columbus/The Time It Is Today (Warner Bros. 7267) 1969
Ex-Appletree Theatre principal John Boylan became the band’s new producer for this movie theme, written by Jim Yester and apparently the winner of an intra-band competition. The movie tie-in couldn’t boost it any higher than No. 78. It’s another hebephrenic sunshine-pop outing, suitable for the Partridge Family (elements of the song anticipate that group’s TV theme) but beneath past Association standards. It is more listenable than “Time for Livin’,” at least.
Under Branches/Hear in Here (Warner Bros. 7277) 1969
Alexander enjoyed his first A-side designation since “Pandora” (less than three years before, although it seems half a lifetime ago, so far had the band traveled in career and psychic terms), but he can’t have enjoyed the subsequent chart results: a “bubbling under” slot of No. 117. A low-key but intriguingly complex, prettily sung ballad.
Yes I Will/I Am Up for Europe (Warner Bros. 7305) 1969
Boylan not only produced but wrote the next single, which likewise failed (by a whisker) to reach the top 100. Despite a crisp pace, a crypto-gospel finishing rave, and some fuzztone guitar, it’s fairly lightweight pop, with the sing-along attributes of some contemporary bubblegum hits, though more fully produced.
Dubuque Blues/Are You Ready (Warner Bros. 7349) 1969
The group and Boylan gave it one more shot in 1969, and Alexander’s song made a slightly better showing, just outside the top 80. An ambivalent portrait of the Iowa town, it’s so little recognized that it didn’t qualify for the 51-track, 2-CD career retrospective that remains the best overview of the group’s body of work. That’s a shame; it’s a folk-pop delight with a winning tune and some of the best deployment of those still-shimmering harmonies in years.
Just About the Same/Look at Me, Look at You (Warner Bros. 7372) 1970
Trying to recapture that hitmaking mojo, the group renewed its association with Boettcher, who bequeathed them an unreleased track by the Millennium, the studio collective he and co-producer Keith Olsen were part of in 1968. The Association put new vocals on top of the composition, written by ex-Music Machine man Doug Rhodes (Olsen was also part of that legendary garage-rock outfit) and Millennium members Joey Stec and future Crabby Appleton leader Michael Fennelly. The mojo proved elusive, as the record stalled out at No. 91, but the Latin-flavored number is a harmony showcase, if not much else.
Along the Way/Travelers Guide (Spanish Flyer) (Warner Bros. 7429) 1970
The latest departure from the core membership was Russ Giguere, who went on to make a solo album and was replaced by Richard Thompson (not the ex-Fairport Convention axemaster, but an American guitarist). Yester wrote the next single, which failed even to make Bubbling Under, or any of its equivalents. An above-average harmony ballad, nearly achieving an enthralling chamber-pop feeling.
P.F. Sloan/Travelers Guide (Spanish Flyer) (Warner Bros. 7471) 1971
They may have passed on “MacArthur Park,” but the Association finally tackled one of Jimmy Webb’s most tantalizing songs – a tribute to/query regarding L.A.’s reigning songwriter-for-hire when Webb was coming up in the mid-’60s. Sloan, who was MIA for a time but in a couple of years would become an Association labelmate, had a connection with the group, too, having written “On a Quiet Night,” a track on the band’s third LP. The record, co-produced by the group with former Shindig musical director Ray Pohlman, treats Webb’s elegiac composition entirely too blithely, to the extent of delivering the second verse in an apparent impression of Walter “Old Rivers” Brennan.
Bring Yourself Home/It’s Gotta Be Real (Warner Bros. 7515) 1971
Drummer Ted Bluechel Jr. nabbed a rare A-side. It’s standard ’70s soft-rock, a genre which at this point has evolved from the band’s ballad hits and now dominated the charts, but for other acts. The song is occasionally pretty and well-sung as always, but overall, one of the group’s least descript singles.
That’s Racin’ (f/Brian Cole)/(Makes Me Cry (Funny Kind of Song) (f/Jules Alexander) (Warner Bros. 7524) 1971
A novel approach was taken for the band’s last WB outing – two LP tracks individually credited to their lead vocalists. Alexander wrote his own B-side showcase, but Kirkman wrote the A-side. Another understandable chart miss, it’s narrated by bassist Cole in talking-blues style, sounding like a sedated Johnny Cash on a stock-car racing novelty that stalls out in first gear, a candidate for most insignificant Association release.
Darling Be Home Soon/Indian Wells Woman (Columbia 45602) 1972
Though the Warner Bros. relationship had clearly exhausted itself, the group’s identity was still sufficiently associated with its mega-hits of just half a decade before for Columbia to take a flyer. Former Van Morrison producer Lewis Merenstein oversaw a cover of the Lovin’ Spoonful ballad hit from 1967, and it accomplished an extremely minor comeback, reaching No. 90. The acoustic guitar intro is no doubt meant to remind listeners of “Never My Love”’s opening; from there it’s a smooth MOR cruise that sands off the rougher emotional edges that made John Sebastian and Co.’s original so affecting.
Come the Fall/Kicking the Gong Around (Columbia 45654) 1972
“Come the Fall” was a Terry Kirkman song. The introductory piano riff is not dissimilar to the Carpenters’ “Close to You,” but even a spirited chorus isn’t quite memorable enough to salvage the proceedings. Shortly after the single’s July release, bassist Brian Cole died from a drug overdose. He was 29. Co-founder Kirkman left the band later that year.
Names, Tags, Numbers & Labels/Rainbows Bent (Mums 6016) 1973
Yet the group persisted, signing with CBS subsidiary Mums, which had recently contracted with P.F. Sloan; you wonder if they ever bumped into each other in the halls. For its label debut, the group essayed a song co-written by Mums’s flagship artist, the British singer-songwriter Albert Hammond, who had taken the meteorologically inexact “It Never Rains in Southern California” to No. 2 late in 1972. “Names,” etc., earned the Association another minor chart item (No. 85).
By this time, Association singles seemed custom-designed for adult-contemporary radio. This one, which fleetingly echoes “Darling Be Home Soon” melodically, is solidly carved into that vein, soaked in orchestration and easy on the ear, though the chorus harmonies provide a few vestigial thrills.
One Sunday Morning/Life Is a Carnival (RCA 10217) 1975
A couple of years passed before the Association found a new home, during which time core members Jules Alexander and Russ Giguere bailed to form a short-lived act called Bijou, precipitating a period of frequently floating personnel. The group still had sufficient name recognition to merit a major-label deal, but not enough to risk an album (the sole Columbia LP was its last new album on a major).
Longtime Guess Who producer Jack Richardson facilitated the recording of a song by “Scuffy Shew” (Harold Yoergler), a one-stiff singer/songwriter whose legend includes tales of being passed over by the Beatles’ Apple label for James Taylor, uncredited incidental participation on Brian Wilson’s Smile sessions, and a friendship with Alex Chilton. “Sunday” is some sort of futility-of-war allegory presented as an uncharacteristic horn-rocker. The B-side is an interesting choice, a cover of the Band, but it’s overwhelmed by massed brass, over which the lead vocal strains uncomfortably to be heard. It’s a departure, certainly, but not a successful one.
Dreamer/You Turn the Light On (Elektra 47094) 1981
Six years later, the five surviving original members, plus Ramos and keyboard player Ric Ulsky, reunited with Howe to cover a Moon Martin song, about a year after Martin’s big moment with Robert Palmer’s “Bad Case of Loving You” and his own “Rolene.” “Dreamer” became the group’s last chart record, its No. 66 peak the post-1968 high-water mark, and a bigger AC charter. It’s also an artistic comeback of sorts, a pretty, though thoroughly MOR, ballad with recurring similarities to Del Shannon/Peter & Gordon’s “I Go to Pieces.”
Small Town Lovers/Across the Persian Gulf (Elektra 47146) 1981
Elektra commissioned another single after “Dreamer” came tantalizingly close to breaking, but “Small Town” was played neither in those locales nor in larger metropolitan areas. It’s fairly generic yacht-pop, requiring little imagination to envision a Christopher Cross version. “Gulf,” written by Jerry Yester and poet/Tim Buckley collaborator Larry Beckett, is worth mentioning as a requiem; it’s a striking, largely a cappella choral number.
Again deprived of the chance to make an album, the lineup of mostly originals disbanded again a couple of years later, but the Association survived in various forms (over its long history nearly 30 members have come and gone, none staying the complete course). The group played the oldies circuit, made a few recordings in a nostalgic vein, and as of 2018 Alexander and Jim Yester were still leading a version of the Association. Longtime member Larry Ramos died in 2014.
The Association’s stardom didn’t last two full years, but in that time the group created several records that will likely be part of the grand pop tapestry forever. Unlike contemporaries who experienced similarly rapid rises and falls (the Spoonful, the Mamas & Papas), the group kept at it, never quite connecting again, but always maintaining those trademark soaring and complex harmonies. If it’s possible to be both over- and underrated, the Association accomplished that double-edged feat, but its best material can stand with the top pop music of its era.