“ Make Your Own Kind of Music” is a scoop of bubblegum ice cream, dripping with sentimentality. I started reading up on Mama Cass after hearing one of her songs during a yoga class. Do earworms drown out healthy skepticism? What are we not hearing when we opt to party in the U.S.A.? But as hipster adults are increasingly embracing top 40 fodder, I wonder what lies beneath some of these infectious melodies. Certain music is intentionally shallow, marketed toward those who will eventually grow out of it. Genre labels are becoming increasingly meaningless, but the spirit of bubblegum has stuck around, (see: K-POP). In the last decade or so, we’ve made great strides in not discounting songs on account of their catchiness. To be clear: I am a card-carrying poptimist (the card in question being a physical copy of Carly Rae Jepson’s E*MO*TION). ![]() Knowing this might eclipse some of the sunny tone of Bubblegum. “I would say the world’s in terrible shape,” she once quipped, “But I’m afraid the world would say, ‘Look who’s talking.’”īut despite her confident facade, the constant jabs about her body (most viciously from Papa John Phillips) stung deeply. She constantly spat one-liners about her weight in press interviews, late night guest spots, and even song lyrics. Michelle Phillips, the other Mama, might have been a Betty, but Cass was no Veronica. The defining hit of the genre, The Archies’ “ Sugar, Sugar,” was sung by literal cartoon characters. Looks are a key ingredient in the bubblegum industrial complex: you’ve got to have a pretty wrapper. Her vocal artistry is exceptional, but something else sets Cass apart from the bubblegum wads of her time (and now): her body. Lemonade, and Something for Mama! are sugary, effervescent, and lacking in nutrients. It’s a song you play over and over until it loses flavor meant to be tasted but never swallowed. But I think the term evokes more about the way the music is consumed than who is consuming it. Two record execs spun out a new genre named for its targeted audience: boomer teens who spent their untaxed allowances on candy and 45s. The phrase “bubblegum pop” was only a few years old at that point. The chorus is not subtle: Better everyday! repeatedly maniacally, as if she’s convincing herself. The title of her lead single? “ Getting Better.” Lemonade, and Something for Mama!, a brazen PR patch to restore the California dreams of her early days with the Mamas and the Papas. ![]() Months later, she released her second solo album, Bubblegum. In a scathing pan, Newsweek compared Cass to a giant ocean liner, under the headline: “Sink Along with Cass.” She later attributed her botched performance to heroin and nerves, but the prior months of fasting four days a week couldn’t have helped. The next day, Cass was back in LA, hospitalized for tonsillitis, and the rest of the Vegas shows were cancelled. ![]() Then she forgot the name of the next song.”īefore slurring into her finale, “ Dream of Little Dream of Me,” Cass attempted to assure the dwindling crowd: “This is the first night. Flatly and uncertainly, she began her set with “Dancing in the Street,’ Rubber Band,’ and ‘Walk on By,’ assisted by a girl trio. Her hairdo was awry and she showed the effects of having just been awakened by a fifteen-hour sleep. ![]() Rolling Stone reported: “The reception was lukewarm when Cass walked onto the stage in her psychedelic muu-muu. The 1968 concert is a legendary disappointment, with its own section on Cass’s Wikipedia page and a devoted chapter in a 2005 biography. The unlikely breakout of the Mamas and the Papas took the stage on her own on opening night, with a high fever and a shot voice.īy all accounts, she crashed and burned. Caesar’s Palace had paid Cass Elliot a record-breaking fee to re-introduce herself as a solo artist, headlining two shows a night for three weeks. So was Sammy Davis Jr., Joan Baez, Liza Minnelli, and Mia Farrow, who sent flowers to the dressing room.
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