Hal Johnson doesn't just rank the 200 best songs of the 1960s; he dismantles the polished nostalgia that usually surrounds the decade, revealing a chaotic, genre-blending era where the "gestalt works" precisely because too many ideas collide at once. In this second installment of his deep dive, Johnson argues that the decade's magic lies in its refusal to stay in its lane, from bubblegum pop that sounds like a mistake to folk revivals that feel "practically primeval." This is essential listening for anyone who thinks the 1960s were a monolith of protest anthems or British Invasion polish, because Johnson proves the era was actually a wild experiment in sonic excess.
The Architecture of Excess
Johnson's most striking observation is that the best tracks of the late 60s succeed not by adhering to a formula, but by breaking every rule in the book simultaneously. Take his analysis of The Box Tops' "Cry like a Baby," a track he describes as "a very weird rock 'n' roll song made weirder by the fact that it also pure pop, and a little bubble-gummy." He notes the sheer density of the arrangement: "It also has everything thrown in, an electric sitar (!), an opening John-Cale-y organ drone, a backup girl-group (but only for the second half), a muted breakdown section that they may have just forgotten to fill in, and a gruff 'rock' vocal curiously low in the mix."
This chaotic layering is the core of Johnson's argument: the song works because the "bubblegum poppiness is so very poppy" that it absorbs the absurdity of the other elements. He writes, "That's too many ideas for one song! But the gestalt works." This framing is effective because it shifts the focus from technical perfection to emotional resonance, suggesting that the 1960s sound was defined by a willingness to risk failure for the sake of a unique texture. It recalls the spirit of the Anthology of American Folk Music, where the juxtaposition of disparate sounds created a new, strange whole, though Johnson applies this logic to the polished studio productions of 1968 rather than the field recordings of the 1920s.
The Raw Emotion of the Teenage Experience
Moving backward in time, Johnson tackles the melodrama of early 60s pop, specifically Lesley Gore's "It's My Party." He argues that the track's power comes from the collision of high-end production and genuine adolescent angst. "Now that's good melodrama!" Johnson exclaims, pointing out that the song "combines busy and complicated production values (Quincy Jones produced) with the raw emotion of a genuine teenager: Lesley Gore, unlike most of the people on this list, was an actual Baby Boomer, and only sixteen when she knocked this one out."
Johnson suggests that this specific moment in music history was fleeting. He posits that "early rock 'n' roll is powered by pure punk teenage emotion; by the '60s people (esp. but hardly exclusively Phil Spector) had learned to couple that raw emotion with the kind of emotional background that is anything but raw." The tragedy, he notes, is that "music 'grows up,' which is a weird thing for music to do, and a teenage party will sound like a ridiculous topic to write a song about." This is a poignant critique of how cultural maturity often sanitizes the raw energy of youth. While one could argue that music naturally evolves to reflect broader societal concerns, Johnson's lament for the loss of the "glorious moment" when a song about a teenage party could make absolute sense resonates deeply with the era's unique cultural snapshot.
Early rock 'n' roll is powered by pure punk teenage emotion; by the '60s people had learned to couple that raw emotion with the kind of emotional background that is anything but raw.
The Alien Sound of the Folk Revival
Perhaps the most compelling section of Johnson's commentary is his exploration of the folk revival's darker, more dangerous edge. He contrasts the sanitized image of the Kingston Trio with the "primeval" sound of Roscoe Holcomb. Johnson writes, "We're not here to talk about Greil Marcus's 'Old Weird America'…we're here to talk about the 1960s…but here comes Roscoe Holcomb and his banjo, singing the old songs in the old way, and he sounds practically primeval, like a track from the Harry Smith Anthology."
He highlights the terrifying nature of Holcomb's lyrics, quoting the line, "'I killed a man / With a borrowed (?) knife / Got (?) 99 years / [unintelligible] life.'" Johnson argues that this track proves the 1960s folk revival brought music back that was "strange, dangerous, and whatever is the opposite of decadent." He draws a sharp distinction between Dylan's poetic danger and Holcomb's visceral threat: "Dylan once said, 'If I told you what my music was about, we'd all be arrested,' but nothing he sang ever sounded as dangerous as Roscoe Holcomb, borrowed knife or no." This reframing challenges the listener to reconsider the folk revival not just as a return to tradition, but as a confrontation with a pre-modern, almost pre-civilized American sound. Critics might note that Holcomb's music was a niche revivalist interest rather than a mainstream phenomenon, but Johnson's point stands: the presence of such alien sounds in the 1960s cultural landscape was a radical act in itself.
The Lost Art of Humor and Novelty
Johnson also mourns the disappearance of the "sense of humor" from mainstream music, using Alan Sherman's "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh" as the prime example. He writes, "Of all the things mainstream music has lost since the '60s (or perhaps the '70s), the most unjustly unmourned is the loss of a sense of humor." He contrasts Sherman's ability to turn a "nineteenth-century opera tune with barely sung lyrics full of goofy camp jokes" into a top-two hit with the modern difficulty of achieving similar success.
The author notes that while "'Weird' Al is great, he didn't have a top ten hit until 2006," suggesting a cultural shift where novelty is now relegated to the fringe. Johnson champions the song's simplicity and singalong quality, observing that "the simplicity of the tune makes it perfect for singalongs—this is one of those songs that people who have never heard the recording may have learned at a summer camp." He even points to the absurdity of the lyric, "And the head coach wants no sissies / So he reads to us from something called Ulysses," as a testament to the era's willingness to embrace the ridiculous. This argument holds up well when considering the broader cultural confidence of the early 60s, where the boundaries between high art and low comedy were far more porous than they are today.
The Unjust Obscurity of the Forgotten
Finally, Johnson uses his platform to correct the historical record for artists who were overshadowed by their contemporaries. He expresses outrage over the obscurity of Johnnie Morisette's "Meet Me at the Twistin' Place," a track produced by Sam Cooke. "No one knows, because not even the combined powers of Sam Cooke and the Twist could keep this single from obscurity, which is UNJUST!" he declares. He praises the song's unique dynamic: "Johnnie Morisette's gritty R&B vocals contrast splendidly with the squeaky-clean, much whiter backup singers, and that's the twist in a nutshell."
Similarly, he defends Johnny Rivers against the "one-hit wonder" label, noting that "the dude had nine top ten hits!" and arguing that "we're treating this guy like a one-hit wonder, when actually he cranked out hits for years." Johnson's insistence on these lesser-known tracks serves as a reminder that the 1960s musical landscape was far more diverse and crowded than the standard canon suggests. He writes that "The Isley Brothers' version [of 'Twist and Shout'] is better" than the famous Beatles cover, a bold claim that invites listeners to revisit the original source material rather than relying on the most famous iteration. This approach enriches the reader's understanding of the era, moving beyond the hits that defined the charts to the songs that defined the sound.
None of it will sound older. None of it will be this alien.
Bottom Line
Hal Johnson's commentary succeeds because it treats the 1960s not as a museum exhibit of perfect hits, but as a chaotic, messy, and incredibly fertile ground for experimentation. His strongest argument is that the decade's enduring appeal lies in its willingness to mix the "bubblegum" with the "primeval," the "goofy" with the "dangerous." The piece's only vulnerability is its occasional reliance on the author's personal taste to define quality, but even that subjectivity feels earned given the depth of his historical knowledge. For the busy listener, this is a reminder that the best music of the 60s wasn't just about the hits—it was about the weird, the forgotten, and the unclassifiable.