Hal Johnson doesn't just list songs; he excavates the strange, often contradictory soul of a decade that claimed to be about revolution while obsessing over novelty hits and car chases. His most striking claim isn't about which track is the "best," but rather that the 1960s were defined by a jarring collision between high-art ambition and low-brow absurdity, where a song about a madman banging pots could sit comfortably beside a haunting acoustic meditation on mortality.
The Architecture of Absurdity
Johnson immediately disarms the reader by acknowledging the "halcyon days" when a pure novelty song could dominate the charts, citing "Monster Mash" as a prime example. He writes, "Those halcyon days when a pure novelty song (not the last we'll encounter) could become a number one hit!" This observation sets the stage for a deeper analysis of the era's cultural flexibility. Johnson argues that the 1960s were strange precisely because they allowed for such tonal whiplash. He notes that "Monster Mash" was a catchy rock tune, but more importantly, it was an "opportunity to impersonate both Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi," foreshadowing the pop-culture monster team-ups of the late 60s like Mad Monster Party?.
This framing is effective because it treats novelty not as a failure of taste, but as a reflection of a society willing to embrace the bizarre. However, Johnson doesn't let the reader off the hook with a simple nostalgia trip. When discussing "They're Coming to Take Me Away Ha-Haaa!" by Napoleon XIV, he pushes the analysis further, suggesting this track was the "apotheosis" of a genre of music he calls "dementia." He contrasts it sharply with the novelty hit before it, stating, "'Monster Mash' was a novelty song, but it was primarily a song. 'They're Coming to Take Me Away Ha-Haaa!' (like 'Fish Heads') asks you to imagine a world in which music has never progressed beyond some kind of rhythmic chanting, a literal madman bashing literal pots."
"The 1960s were strange!"
Critics might argue that elevating a song about institutionalization to the status of a top-tier hit trivializes the very real mental health struggles of the era. Yet, Johnson's point stands: the song's success as a #3 pop hit proves that the listening public was hungry for a world where musicality had collapsed into rhythmic chaos. It was a safe, commercialized version of madness, but madness nonetheless.
The Weight of Melodrama and the Solo Trap
As the list moves into more serious territory, Johnson's commentary shifts to the tension between individual expression and the collective band identity. He tackles Pink Floyd's Ummagumma with a brutal honesty that many retrospective lists avoid. He describes the album's second half, consisting of solo projects, as a "whole disk of solo projects" where "the four members of Pink Floyd made a whole disk of solo projects." He is particularly scathing about the drummer's contribution, noting, "The poor drummer had no recourse but to release seven-minutes of drums (his wife played flute in brief bookends). You do not want to listen to this."
This critique highlights a fascinating historical pivot point. As Johnson notes, 1969 saw Pink Floyd "sandwiched between two other identities: They had started as a vehicle for Syd Barrett's twee imagination and would, in the 1970s, become anthemic AOR rockers. In between they were a jam band." The failure of the solo experiment underscores the band's eventual need to coalesce into a singular, anthemic voice. Johnson admits, "I know I'm oversimplifying," but his assessment that "most of the songs on the second half of Ummagumma are just not very good" serves as a necessary counterweight to the band's later mythos.
Yet, even in this failure, Johnson finds a gem: David Gilmour's "The Narrow Way Part 3." He calls it "the most hauntingly beautiful piece he'd ever write," a track that somehow emerged from a "strange way to squander the concept of a band." This duality—where a bad idea produces a masterpiece—is a recurring theme in Johnson's analysis. He applies a similar lens to Lee Hazlewood's "We All Make the Flowers Grow," a track from the concept album Trouble Is a Lonesome Town. Johnson points out that Hazlewood's work in the 60s is often overshadowed by his later 70s output, but this song stands out for its simplicity. He quotes the undertaker character: "'Please don't blame me, I didn't start this mess,' Hazlewood sings... 'You'll never get out of this world alive.'"
"Simple is good, especially for a light-hearted song about death."
The juxtaposition of a cheerful rhythm guitar with lyrics about the inevitability of death is a masterclass in the era's ability to hold conflicting emotions. Johnson notes that the spoken word introduction is "overlong," but he refuses to penalize it, suggesting that the song's power lies in its unapologetic commitment to its own strange logic.
The Moral Vacuum of Pop
Perhaps the most provocative section of Johnson's commentary is his defense of "evil" songs. He tackles "Yes, Mr Peters" by Roy Drusky & Priscilla Mitchell, a duet about a husband having an affair while his wife listens on the phone. Johnson admits, "Certainly an evil song and almost a godawful kitsch song—nevertheless I cannot help but love it." He argues that the song functions as a "sendup of the worst habits of great country tunes," even if it wasn't intended as satire.
Johnson's analysis here is sharp: he suggests that the song's power comes from its "cutesyness" and the "hesitant, over-loving, and very weird way" Drusky sings "Mr. Peters." He concludes, "That's awful! But art exists in a moral vacuum, and this is a great country tune." This is a bold stance for a critic to take, arguing that a song about infidelity can be a "great country tune" precisely because it captures "big emotions expressed in a clunky or overwrought fashion."
Similarly, he praises Phil Ochs' "Outside of a Small Circle of Friends" for its "pitch-black sardonic song about apathy." Johnson highlights the lyrics: "Look outside the window, there's a woman being grabbed! They've dragged her to the bushes, and now she's being stabbed! Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain, But Monopoly is so much fun." He notes that the song was red-flagged for its mention of marijuana, but argues that "even at the time its indictment of society should have been more controversial than the word marijuana."
Critics might argue that Johnson's willingness to celebrate "evil" or apathetic songs risks normalizing harmful behavior. However, his point is that these songs reflect the cultural anxieties of the time more accurately than sanitized pop hits. The song's failure to chart, he suggests, was a failure of the industry to grasp the depth of the public's cynicism.
The Bottom Line
Hal Johnson's list succeeds because it refuses to treat the 1960s as a monolith of protest and peace, instead revealing a decade obsessed with the macabre, the absurd, and the deeply personal. His strongest argument is that the era's greatest art often emerged from its most "clumsy" or "evil" moments, where the boundaries between sincerity and kitsch blurred. The piece's biggest vulnerability is its reliance on a specific, somewhat contrarian taste that may alienate readers looking for a more traditional celebration of the decade's anthems. However, for those willing to engage with the weirdness, Johnson offers a compelling map to the strange, beautiful, and often terrifying heart of the 1960s.