April 25-May 1, 2002

books

The Tao of Chew

Don’t throw that Bubblegum Music away just yet.

by Frank Halperin

Let’s face it: Bubblegum music is the ultimate guilty pleasure. Infectious confections devoid of both pretense and redeeming social value, the sweetest aural candy-grams of this pop music genre ejaculate lyrical gibberish (often chock-full of sexual innuendo and lascivious double entendres) that are fortified with contagious vocal enticements to create 3-minute jolts of glucose ecstasy. Feed it “Green Tambourine,” “I Think I Love You,” “Mickey,” or “…Baby One More Time,” the jones for slick, ephemeral singles refuses to be satiated. Yes, it’s vacuous and manufactured, but the pointlessness of it all is precisely the point. It’s the most melodious cheap thrill that your eardrums will ever know.

This ethos of if-it-feels-good-do-it, carefree abandon that typifies these taffy tunes is chronicled with a surging vitality in Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth. Unlike the chewy, chewy, chewy candy treat from which the sound derives its name, the book doesn't lose its intoxicating flavor even after multiple readings. The extravagant treatment of the subject, combined with the fierce acuity of its numerous writers, not only distinguishes it as the consummate guide to bubblegum but also puts it in the same league with the best analyses of pop music ever published, right up there with Greil Marcus' Mystery Train, Nik Cohn's Awopbopaloobopalopbamboom, Albert Goldman's Disco and Lester Bangs' Psychotic Reactions & Carburetor Dung.

In many ways, the book brings to mind the wonderful Retro Hell (1997), in which a diverse array of high-minded zealots with way too much time on their hands (the embodiment of Nick Hornby's characters in High Fidelity) ranted and raved over '70s/'80s pop-cult artifacts. Equally idealistic, edgy and unabashedly sure of themselves, the contributors anthologized in Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth, who run the gamut from obscure underground 'zine scribes to well-known rock critics like Chuck Eddy and Greg Shaw, raise the bar in terms of incisive deconstruction. As one might suspect with an eclectic collection such as this, literary aesthetics are a purely subjective issue; the style, tone and scope of these essays are hopelessly volatile, which is fine, since the fruit-stripe assortment manifests itself into a cohesive, jammed-up and jelly-tight aggregation.

It is, among other things, a thorough history, with no aspect of bubblegum artistry overlooked. The saccharine trajectory ventures from the Archies, the Monkees and the Cowsills to Britney Spears, Ricky Martin, the Spice Girls and 'N Sync. Careful attention is paid to the groups that represented its golden age (1967-72); the editors balance the renowned favorites with those that aren't as easily remembered, Crazy Elephant ("Gimme Gimme Good Lovin'"), the Defranco Family ("Heartbeat, It's a Lovebeat") and the Peppermint Rainbow ("Will You Be Staying After Sunday?"). Of particular note is the profile of Ron Dante, bubblegum's quintessential Renaissance man, who sang lead on two seminal tracks (the Archies' "Sugar, Sugar" and the Cuff Links' "Tracy"), served as publisher of The Paris Review (!), co-produced Barry Manilow's albums, dabbled in disco (forming Dante's Inferno, of "Fire Island" fame) and provided the backing for the Broadway smash Ain't Misbehavin'.

Because the behind-the-scenes song crafters -- or puppet-masters, to be blunt -- were as crucial to the product as the actual bands, if not more so, Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth devotes a considerable amount of pages to the Oz wizards who stood in the syrupy shadows. Among those discussed are impresario Don Kirshner, who was to the record industry what Fred Silverman was to the television industry; multi-hyphenate Jeff Barry, who added bubblegum to his illustrious musical resume by co-writing "Sugar, Sugar" with Andy Kim and producing and arranging all of the Archies' material, not to mention his work with the Monkees; and Jerry Kasenetz and Jeff Katz, the "Super K" dynamic duo of Buddah Records, who produced Ohio Express' "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy," the 1910 Fruitgum Company's "Simon Says" and a catalog of other sticky hits (the Kasenetz-Katz Singing Orchestral Circus' "Quick Joey Small," Ram Jam's "Black Betty," etc.).

Arguably the most enjoyable section of Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth is a series of articles that examine its ubiquitous proliferation in TV and film. Subheaded "Bubblegum Invades the Media," it surveys the obvious (The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Hanna-Barbera cartoons, Sid & Marty Krofft freakshows) to the mystifyingly arcane (the 1970 movie Toomorrow, a surreal fantasy that featured Olivia Newton-John a full decade before Xanadu). Specifically engaging are two pieces by James Porter, "Never Mind The Bollocks, Here's the Banana Splits" and "Fat Albert & the Cosby Kids: The Last Great TV Bubblegum Band," the latter raising a question that's surely been in the minds of thirtysomethings for quite some time: "So why aren't there any Fat Albert records?"

This is just a bite-sized sampling of the sugar-rush hyper-activity that permeates Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth, which also contains such whipped cream and other delights as a manifesto by two members of an organization called the Partridge Family Temple, who rewrite Christianity as a come-on-get-happy gospel, and a sort-of Dubble Bubble acid test wherein co-editor Kim Cooper exposes her prepubescent siblings to random bubblegum cuts, both classic and contemporary, while soliciting their reactions. Showcased amidst the Hansel (or is it Hanson?) and Gretel candy-constructed utopia is a fantastic gallery of vintage album sleeves, lunch boxes, magazine covers and related miscellany; the fact that it's reproduced in black-and-white doesn't detract from the visual impact whatsoever.

Any self-respecting pop fan must -- I repeat, must -- get Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth for their personal library. Perhaps Fat Albert's creator and live-action commentator, the post-Alexander Scott, pre-Cliff Huxtable Bill Cosby, can furnish the most apt description: The book, just like his animated program, is "comin' at you with music and fun, and if you're not careful you might learn something before it's done." That, my friends, is the naked truth. Peruse its pages and you'll instantly feel as if Willy Wonka just handed you the keys to the Chocolate Factory.

-- Respond to this article in our Forums -- click to jump there