Before I get started on the meat and two veg, so to speak, it would be wrong to borrow the song title without paying tribute to Scouting for Girls’ well-deserved success. They are a hardworking band; write genuinely good pop songs and are tireless in support of their two chosen charities. I like them a lot … I’m also grateful to Roy and the boys for prodding a notion that has been cat-napping at the back of my mind for way to long …
It’s that time of year when I could be forgiven for waxing lyrical about cloudless skies and butterflies hovering around pink-hued acacia blooms; but more than likely, it’s the sight of tawny-limbed lovelies in tight-fitting tank-tops and flouncy rah-rah skirts that stirs the romantic man in me. And what’s more, a stroll through any city centre would show that I’m not a stand-alone guy.
Free from the confines of winter woollies, bare-chested builders seem to wolf-whistle with more gusto, and if only to hoot their horns and leer, white-van drivers observe the speed limit through streets awash with summer-clad cuties. Even mild-mannered pen-pushers get all argy-bargy over a prime seat outside their favourite lunchtime watering hole.
And me? When it comes to a spot of springtime billing and cooing, I see myself more as a shy, retiring softie who reckons that a good old love song is the sure-fire way of melting your honey-bunch’s heart … and before the naysayers start scoffing, let me say that I’d bet a pound to a pinch of cat litter that a tear-jerking ballad would kick the snot out of Cupid and his quiver full of arrows any day of the … sorry, sorry. Here’s me trying to get all Mills and Boon-ish and what happens? The testosterone rushes to the surface like the bubbles in a freshly opened bottle of Budweiser … no, no; make that a Stella - ice cold, with a double cheeseburger on the side … oh bugger. There I go again: led astray by these irrepressible macho instincts. And yet, now that my cover is blown, maybe my own shortcoming might help explain why, if music is the food of love, it’s the women who do most of the cooking … and serve up the tastiest morsels.
And this is by no means a modern trend: going back to the time of crackly 78’s, men have seldom serenaded their sweethearts with any sincerity. Okay, growing up in the 20’s and 30’s was never easy, but when the old bluesmen and guitar pickers reminisced more about a pet dog’s loyalty and their love of Momma’s cooking, it suggested that, while they were filling their faces with grits and chicken dumplings, the Great Depression was taking a bigger toll on the female fraternity than it was on the local canine population.
And the pioneers of rock 'n' roll were equally as guilty. Their preoccupation with bopping at the hop, left little time for romantic interludes, and even when they tired of giving their belle the rag-doll treatment, an invitation to ‘ride in my car’ was more of a metaphor for parking-up and gettin’ jiggy than it was for a moonlit drive through scenic countryside.
But even as the rock 'n' roll era gave way to the swinging sixties, the next generation might well have broken new ground with their music, but the only evidence of a change of mindset was the handful of artistes who were more readily in touch with their feminine side.
Eager to cut themselves a slice of Beatle-mania, acne-faced hopefuls grew their hair long and picked up cheap guitars; and in an age where cars, let alone garages, were a luxury, front rooms and church halls echoed to a three-chord wall of sound.
Although there were plenty who never progressed beyond the first chapter of Bert Weedon’s bible, Play In A Day, there was a host of talented musicians who would stand the test of time.
Looking back on those early days, and putting myself in the songsmiths’ shoes, I can’t help thinking that a fear of being labelled a sissy by their band mates was partly responsible for their reluctance to shower their sweethearts with misty-eyed endearments. Not that I’m suggesting romance was entirely taboo: they could sing of flings and one-night stands, and even hint at hanky-panky … and boy oh boy, their eagerness to crow about their conquests was such that it puts me in mind of the joke about the guy who was shipwrecked on a tropical island with only Megan Fox for company: after 6 months of doing what men the world over only dreamed about, the castaway was strangely downhearted. In a bid to cheer up her lover, dear Megan went along with his unusual request to disguise herself as a man. Having gone to extraordinary lengths to stage-manage a chance reunion with an old chum, the happy-looking fella raced along the beach, and even before he offered a handshake he said: ‘Hey mate, you’ll never guess who I’m shagging.’
Anyway enough of that frippery … despite dabbling with what can only be called quasi-love songs, these songwriters seemed more at ease aligning themselves to manly pursuits: clubbing and boozing and cruising the streets. And there were the homage’s to fashion, and travel to dusty towns where men kicked the cow dung off their wing-tipped boots before picking out a tune on a battered 12-stringer and crooning about dusty old towns where men …
And let’s not forget their love of speed - although I’m not excluding the Colombian bouncing powder, I was thinking more of easy-rider motorbikes and gas-guzzling open-topped cars... regular readers will remember me going on about my old mate ‘Dickie’ Bird - the one who had a brother called Pecker who never returned my Walker Brothers record. Well, he had a cousin on his father’s side whose name was Theresa, and whenever she heard a pop star singing about how much he loved his T-bird, she always used to say that the song was about her … but there again, because of her freckly face and NHS glasses, she had only ever been out with one boy and all he owned was a hand-me-down pushbike with old fashioned handlebars and Sturmey-Archer gears that needed... oops. Nearly did it again.
Anyway, back to men and love songs: of course there are exceptions: bashful lads who gifted Unchained Melody to their loved ones because they were too shy to sing the words, will always remember the Righteous Brothers … the same can be said for the more bullish young bucks who, rather than risk a slap for flashing, banked on a chorus or two in tune with Bobby Hatfield and Bill Medley to show that their manly bits-and-bobs had dropped into place.
And let’s not forget those singers with heaven-sent voices: they are few and far between, but the likes of Scott Walker could cover any track from Never Mind The Bollocks and inject it with a frisson of romance.
There are a few other names I could mention, but even if I admit that the Beatles were not far short of the mark with Something and neither was Joe Cocker with his version of You Are So Beautiful … and if only Van Morrison didn’t look so perpetually hacked-off at the prospect, Have I Told You Lately wouldn’t be the only one of his love songs to fit the bill.
And yet, although I’m a big, big fan of Van The Man’s early stuff - especially when he was backed by the wondrous Caledonia Soul Orchestra - the other two numbers don’t set my heart on fire; but even if it was flaming like a double-rack of ribs on a late-night barbie, there would still be no comparing them to Beth Nielsen Chapman’s All I Have or Roberta Flack’s First Time Ever I Saw Your Face … and I could list another dozen straight off the top of my head, but with apologies to fans of Mini Ripperton and Bonnie Raitt and the ever-outstanding Joan Armatrading, I’ve reached the point where the howls of protest from Elvis fans are impossible to ignore.
So let me respond by saying that were it not for one historic moment, I’d be waving the white flag and promising to pay due respect to classics like Love Me Tender and The Wonder Of You … but that’s not going to happen; and if anyone is wondering why, simply cast your mind back to the now-famous live recording of Elvis singing Are You Lonesome Tonight? Okay, I can understand him chuckling when he forgot the words and ad-libbed, but when he reached the halfway point and was belly-laughing as if someone had just told him the one about the man marooned on a tropical island, the game was up. As far as I was concerned, his love songs might just as well been sung by Billy Connolly.
But even though The King was a culprit, it would be unfair if he were to shoulder all the blame. The seeds of my cynicism were first sown in the sixties when an American group who laboured under the name The Turtles released a song called Elenore. It was a wishy-washy sing-along number which defied its mediocrity by making the top ten on both sides of the Atlantic. Its other claim to fame lies in the line ‘You’re my pride and joy, et cetera’ - at the time it was the only known use of the Latin expression in a pop song.
Now, with that little doozy in mind, the next time any of you alpha-males send a birthday card to your wife or sweetheart, try signing it: ‘With all my love, et cetera’ … perhaps you could let us know how long it was before the swelling went down.
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And the pioneers of rock 'n' roll were equally as guilty. Their preoccupation with bopping at the hop, left little time for romantic interludes, and even when they tired of giving their belle the rag-doll treatment, an invitation to ‘ride in my car’ was more of a metaphor for parking-up and gettin’ jiggy than it was for a moonlit drive through scenic countryside. 
