"Sixteen Tons," by Tennessee Ernie Ford

December 1955 to January 1956--(Six Weeks)

Admit it: you like this song.  And even if you don't, you've almost certainly heard it.

When Tom Hanks heads to his soul-crushing job in the opening credits of "Joe Versus the Volcano," which song do they have Eric Burdon closely cover on the soundtrack?  This song, naturally.  Bart listens to the original on that one Simpsons episode where the family is sentenced to an afternoon of spring cleaning.  Most of your coworkers probably know the words to the chorus, especially the rueful kicker "I owe my soul to the company store," even if most people these days have no idea what a company store is.  Simply put, "Sixteen Tons" is musical shorthand for drudgery in our culture, and that's not likely to change any time soon.

Why does it work so well?  It's hard to say.  Most people my age recognize "Tennessee" Ernie Ford, if they recognize him at all, as that irritating hick cousin of Lucy's who terrorizes the Ricardos on old "I Love Lucy" reruns.  He milked this same "country bumpkin" persona for all it was worth on TV and radio shows throughout the era, but it's somewhat disconcerting when you learn that he was also a prolific gospel singer with a powerful baritone--so it's possible that Jim "Gomer Pyle" Nabors copied his entire act.  (Unless Larry the Cable Guy put out an album of inspirational music I'm not aware of, our era has no equivalent.  Be thankful.)

This is one of those fun instances where the hit was on the B-side, meaning that the record execs pinned most of their misguided hopes on the other side of the record making it big.  True to form, the A-side, a ballad called "You Don't Have To Be a Baby to Cry," is nothing special--check it out here if you're curious--but "Sixteen Tons" is undeniably potent.  The arrangement is sparse, starting with a haunting hook by two clarinets (NOT a harmonium, apparently), and featuring a descending bass line, finger snapping, some understated percussion, and not much else.  A few spare wind instruments sneak in during the chorus, but the focus is on Ford's rich voice, boasting of outlandish feats of strength in the verse, only to return to the same inescapable truth of a lifetime of bondage.

It's an unusual song, halfway between a swing and a country shuffle, but somehow it works beautifully.  There's no real regional or personal identity attached to the song; Ernie Ford didn't have the working-class cred of Merle Travis, who wrote the tune, or Johnny Cash, who covered it.  But it's Ford's version that became a massive hit, largely for the same reasons that it remains appealing today: a haunting vocal performance and an accompaniment that wisely stays out of his way.

Up next:  A Rat Packer gets (hic) sensitive.