Glammish take on the dancefloor smash
Label: MCA
Year of Release: 1973
Back when I DJ'ed at sixties nights, I was always careful to keep a copy of "Mony Mony" in my record box. It was a record I liked rather than loved, but nonetheless it's a powerful tool to have put to one side. If it was getting towards midnight and the majority of people in the room were still only twitching their feet on the boundaries of the dancefloor, it was possible to deploy it and cause a forward surge which made my next hour a lot easier. The folk whose feet were only tapping to some soul obscurity moments before would suddenly feel compelled to swing and kick to "Mony Mony" - its evangelical roar seems to lock into something important in the slightly drunken human brain. It does something all DJs love - it turns a slightly shy gathering into a party.
One of my fellow DJ's, on the other hand, frequently favoured "Land Of A 1,000 Dances" for similar reasons. It was certainly the more credible of the two options, and also caused people to feel the urge to express themselves rhythmically. Something about the utter gibberish about dance crazes spewing from Wilson Pickett's mouth with apparent sincerity, combined with those driving rhythms, caused excitement.
You could argue the single biggest thing both tracks have in common is how they're frantic little records about absolutely nothing tangible or important which absolutely drip with fervour - there's no baggage, regret or alternate meanings you could associate with either, but they scream their nonsense for dear life. They're soul without the meaning soul usually contains, the energy and the fizz without the heartache. That makes them sound like slightly shallow propositions, but at 11pm at night just as the fourth drink of the evening slides down your gullet, and just as you've managed to let the stress finally leave your weekday bones, shallow is sometimes what you're after.
There's also probably a psychological factor at play with records which are facile lyrically, and the way they persuade people to interact with the dancefloor. If the singer is happy to wrap his lips around some very daft proclamations, why should you be afraid to dance imperfectly to them and be ridiculous together? Not all of us are capable of doing high kicks at Northern Soul nights while listening to high class tales of heartbreak, after all.
Singer and guitarist Rod Alexander, aka Axe, was clearly on to something here way before I was, because he welded the two songs together into one cut-and-shut glam rock model. Suddenly they're no longer vast, echoing exhortations to dance, but beery footstompers for the social club crowd. This isn't an abuse of their powers, though - this medley has a sledgehammer impact I'd love to try out at a glam night if only I still DJ'ed these days. Maybe one of you can do it for me and report back on the end results. The thud and echo of these versions transforms the tracks into something a bit more brutish, slightly more leaden than carefree, but the principles (such as they are) are still intact.
