A few years back, Goldmine Magazine did a listing of albums most likely to turn up at Salvation Army or Goodwill stores. Amazingly, that listing just about holds true today. Walk into any thrift store, and you're still guaranteed a reserved copy or two of such dustbin durables as The First Family (comedian Vaughn Meader's 1962 spoof of the Kennedy clan that stopped being funny faster than you can say "grassy knoll") and the entire Herb Alpert catalogue, whose sales precipitously dropped off once Alpert started crooning.
Lately another evergreen flexed its scratchy vinyl muscles with alarming frequency, and it never even made it on the original Goldmine list: John Denver's Greatest Hits. Reputed to have sold more than 10 million copies worldwide, it seems now every copy has come home to roost in St. Vincent de Paul shops all over Phoenix. First you'd see maybe one or two, but that snowballed to six and seven in one location. People are turning 'em in, but ain't nobody snapping 'em up!
Hoo ha, you say! That means nothing. Old biddies who bought Denver's albums must've passed away and left his discs with the bulk of the Christmas albums. Maybe some of his Seventies followers flaked on him around the same time they realized granola was fattening and earth shoes looked like footwear Gepetto might design for a dress-casual Pinocchio. Whatever. Somewhere along the way, a large chunk of Denver's following dropped him faster than that experimental aircraft ever did. And I'm sitting here with all the Billboard books and charts, wondering Oh, God! Oh, God!, why have y'all abandoned him?
In the span of 18 months, from 1974 to 1975, Denver had four No. 1 hits. Yet before the Bicentennial year ended, he'd placed his last song in the Pop Top 20. In essence, his career as a megaselling recording artist was dead shortly before Elvis, that other big-selling RCA recording artist, curled his lip one last time.
Like most recording artists, Denver had his share of fair-weather fans who'd rush out to buy a Greatest Hits or a Greatest Hits Live collection but avoided an album that was 100 percent hit-free. Boo to you, I say. Boo for abandoning a simple, wholesome guy when his "aw shucks" optimism and sunshine clashed with your wardrobe. Bet you're feeling mighty bad for ignoring those countless albums he kept churning out after Windsong, all full of optimism, all hopeless flares fired from a distant island as the good ship platinum sailed away. Where were you when I Want to Live, Some Days Are Diamonds and JD were being stamped out at the factory? Doing the Shy Tuna to the B-52's, I'll bet! Can't remember when you stopped thanking God for this country boy? Lemme refresh your memory, ya Rocky Mountain Judases!
1. Work With Me, Annie! "Annie's Song" is popular at weddings. Denver fans ignored that he'd hung in the matrimonial stakes for 15 years, choosing instead to focus on that he divorced his wife Annie and was soon filling up his senses with the likes of Susan Anton.
2. The Muppet Connection! Take heed, Prince! Appear on TV too many times in the company of puppets, and people start thinking you're weirder than Michael Jackson.
3. Denver Divided the North and the South! In 1975, when the Country Music Association named Denver its Entertainer of the Year, a large segment of the CMA voiced its displeasure. Charlie Rich, after reading the contents of the winning envelope, promptly took out his butane lighter and set it aflame. Bitter? Sure! Probably because you Benedict Arnolds stopped buying his records the year before.
4. Gas Hog! At the height of the oil shortage, it was reported that Denver was hoarding gasoline for his snowmobiles. Anyone who waited on those interminable gas lines could be excused for killing someone if "Back Home Again" was playing on the radio. But you shoulda forgiven him, 'cause he named his next single:
5. "I'm Sorry"! Okay, maybe I'm with you backstabbers on this one. It's the first sign of weirdness in Denverland besides John replacing Chad Mitchell in the Chad Mitchell Trio and then not having the balls to change his name to Chad Mitchell. Our troubadour takes the apology song, a simple formula which catapulted Brenda Lee to stardom, and taints it by dragging politics into it. After apologizing to his lady love about the lies he told her and the things he didn't say, he mucks it all up by saying, "I'm sorry for the way things are in China." You immediately doubt his sincerity and expect him to launch into a litany of empty sorries, like, "I'm sorry the Broncos lost," or "I'm sorry Webster was canceled."