The Sterlings, "I Know That You Know, Baby" c/w "Face to Face" (Decca 31818, 7/1965)

 

The lone single of The Sterlings comes with zero information, beyond the identities of its creators (and possible performers), John Madara and David White. These denizens of the Philadelphia music scene co-wrote sheafs of vibrant pop songs throughout the 1960s.

Their story begins with the 1959 success of Danny and The Juniors, a Philly vocal group of which David White was a member. Madara spotted the group, then called The Juvenaires, and connected them to a local record producer. (He volunteered to sing lead on the demo that got their career rolling.) TV host Dick Clark agreed to plug their record on his American Bandstand program—if they’d cut him in on 50% of the platter’s action.

White had left the group and started college when their record of “At the Hop” soared up the national pop charts. Goodbye, academia! Madera and White became a full-time songwriting-producing team. Along the way, they discovered Black songwriters Leon Huff and Kenny Gamble and got them into the system.

Madera/White connected with Mercury Records, and their byline is on dozens of pop, rock and r&b singles on that label. They also connected with Decca, where they made today’s mega-obscure single—an intriguing attempt to blend the sound of the 1965 Beatles with American groups such as The Four Seasons (minus the rhesus monkey screeches of Frankie Valli). It’s highly probable that The Sterlings were Madara and White, doubling up their vocals like Phil Sloan and Steve Barri did on the West Coast at that time. While it’s not a staggering masterpiece, it’s a good solid pop-rock single and deserved some notice. 1965 was a…well, you know. I don’t need to roll that old statement out anymore.

The duo also did a regrettable series of singles as The Spokesmen, including a right-wing response to Phil Sloan’s “Eve of Destruction,” called “Dawn of Correction.” That fetid hairball of a recording got into the lower rungs of the Top 40 in the fall of 1965, at the time today’s much-better record was released straight into the black abyss of obscurity.

Madara and White wrote dynamite pop songs (much like Sloan and Barri) that, more often than not, got little to no reaction when new. They had enough consistent hits that those mitigated the losses, but some fine songs went unheard until loons like myself began to play the records and discovered these little gems. To wit.

“I Know That You Know, Baby” feels like a 1970s pop song. Its bold, singalong chorus is irresistible, and delivered in a solid wall of male harmony. Its story of philandering and its toxic aftermath is told with a surprising frankness, bordering on a cynic’s dismissal. A minor-key interlude brings a Beatle-esque feel, with its suggestion of that group’s “I’ll Be Back” from the Hard Day’s Night LP.

Like almost all the American attempts to do Beatle-like records, it includes a wheezy, unapt “does this harmonica still work?”-style solo and electric 12-string guitar. This beefy production borders on the Phil Spector sound, but retains the feeling that this could be performed by human beings in real time.

The chorus along ought to have gotten this record on the charts, but too many fish were in the small wading pool that was 1965 music. A lot of fish died, flapping on the hot asphalt outside said pool.

 Hear it >>>>> HERE. <<<<<

 “Face to Face” gets more Beatle-esque, with a complex melody and a Lennon-esque vocal performance by one of the guys. This haunting song of realization and lost pride is very 1965 in its emotional gloom—it was not a chipper year for pop music, content-wise. ’65 melancholy can be quite fetching, as is this moody item which I heard in passing and intrigued me enough to find this record.

Hear it >>>>> HERE. <<<<<

Nothing came of this record, which didn’t make it to a retail release. There was zero demand for it. Unmentioned in the music trade press, it died after one small promotional pressing. No one noticed nor cared. It happened every week of the year. All parties involved went onto other things.

It’s galling that The Spokesmen got to make several singles and an LP (which included a cover version of Paul McCartney’s much-recorded “Michelle”) while this more appealing project died at birth. Cosmic shrug o’ the shoulders at the caprices of mankind.

Tomorrow: a little-known, soulful 1965 single by The Shirelles.