Marie Osmond, "This Is the Way That I Feel"

Ever wonder what Marie Osmond would have sounded like if she had mashed up two Diana Ross hits, "Love Hangover" and "Ain't No Mountain High Enough"? Then you should be aware of absolutely sweet Marie's final Top 40 chart appearance as a solo artist, "This Is the Way That I Feel." It spent a single week at #39 in June 1977 before disappearing into the Land of Lost Pop Songs. Thankfully, people like YouTube poster Music Mike remember them. (Check out his YouTube channel for an immense number of forgotten gems.)

Hootie and the Blowfish, "Can't Find the Time"

At last, we complete our exploration of a too-forgotten oldie. Over the years, a few obscure bands took cracks at recording "Can't Find the Time." The members of the Orpheus Rising incarnation of the band have archived a few snippets by groups with names like Wasabi and Wits End. But the one notable rendition in the past decade was by a very unlikely act: Hootie and the Blowfish, who had just begun their exit from the national stage but placed their cover of "Can't Find the Time" on the soundtrack of 2000's Me, Myself and Irene, a typically manic Jim Carrey comedy. Directors the Farrelly Brothers, or whoever was responsible for the soundtrack, peculiarly opted for mostly newly recorded covers of Steely Dan songs. What the Dan had to do with multiple-personality Carrey was anybody's guess, much less why Hootie and the Blowfish would chime in with a non-Dan cover.

(There is a connection of which the Farrellys were probably unaware, though: Chevy Chase, who was a drummer before he was a comic actor, played in an early version of Steely Dan as well as in a Boston-area band that impersonated Orpheus on a handful of tour dates.)

Darius Rucker and the boys didn't make much of an impression with their languid and faintly countrified take on the chestnut, but it did return the song to the public eye for a short period of time, and in hindsight, it makes a bit more sense of Rucker's country moves to come.

Rose Colored Glass, "Can't Find the Time"

After poor distribution from record label MCA prevented "Can't Find the Time" from becoming the hit it deserved to be, a few more singles came and went for Orpheus. "Brown Arms in Houston" grazed the singles chart, and "By the Size of My Shoes" gave "Rhinestone Cowboy" songwriter Larry Weiss some of his earliest visibility, but there were cracks in the armor. Principal lead singer and songwriter Bruce Arnold, dissatisfied with the touring version of the band and desirous of new collaboration, broke up the group in late '69 and formed a new Orpheus in '71 for one album; he now disavows all connection with the outfit presently gigging as Orpheus Reborn.

"Can't Find the Time," meanwhile, found new life in the hands of Rose Colored Glass, a pop quartet who took it to #54 in the spring of 1971. I'd never have known about it had it not been for a Dick Bartley compilation, Collector's Essentials: The '70s, that I reviewed in the early 2000s for the All Music Guide. (Ignore the typo in the first sentence; it's bugged me for years.) I love that, according to the 45 on this YouTube clip, the strings were arranged by Hoppy Hallman. One more reason to enjoy this chipper rendition of "Can't Find the Time."

Orpheus, "Can't Find the Time"

In the late '60s, a band arose from Worcester, MA, named Orpheus, after the Greek god of songs. Orpheus was ultimately a tragic figure in the Greek pantheon - his wife Eurydice was killed by a snake at their wedding, and his attempt to retrieve her from Hades ended in an even sadder fashion - and Orpheus the band didn't have the happiest ending either.

At the time Orpheus the band was making regional waves, popular media were taking note of the "San Francisco sound" - a convenient buzz phrase identifying all the hippie jammers shaking things up in '67, from the Airplane to the Dead to Quicksilver and so forth. The scene had grown organically and helped drive thousands of young folks to head West and apprehend a new way of life. So, of course, a guy got the bright idea to manufacture a similar "scene" in Boston, another city with a thriving crop of youthful musicians. That the bands in the "scene" were of wildly divergent styles and barely knew much less jammed with one another mattered little - they would be "the Bosstown sound," the kids would like it, and that was that.

But the kids recognized contrivance for what it was, so a lot of those Boston-area bands got a bad rap for the disbelieved hype. And Orpheus may have been the most shafted of them all. Sure, their lyrics could be possessed of hokey, dated catchphrases ("baby, remember when we turned on to a rainy day"), but their music was sophisticated, jazz-informed, with unexpected chords and tasteful orchestration augmenting their sweet melodies. They made the nether reaches of the Hot 100 twice, with the songs "Can't Find the Time" and "Brown Arms in Houston."

Happily, the former retains some cachet among oldies connoisseurs - even clocking in at #2 in a recent music-fanatics poll of the all-time "shouldabeens" (as in, shoulda been a bigger hit) - and remains in rotation on Boston oldies radio. It's an all-time favorite of mine, and I hope you'll enjoy it too - since later this week I'll spotlight another version or two of "Can't Find the Time." Enjoy.

Everything Is Everything, "Witchi Tai To"

On America's infamous Tax Day, I'd like to remind everyone that to be taxed is a privilege. It is a remarkable achievement that the U.S. has been able to pave roads, deliver mail, put out fires, police streets, educate children, and in so many other ways "provide for the common defense and promote the general welfare" of its people. I fail to understand how all the Tea Partiers and people threatening to "go Galt" can claim to love America and yet hate Americans so. Seems to me that a truer patriotism is to help ensure that our fellow countrymen have a fighting chance of survival.

But let me offer something ameliorative rather than confrontational regarding the day when the big bill comes due. "Witchi Tai To" was a #69 hit in 1969 for Everything Is Everything, featuring songwriting and vocals from the late saxophonist Jim Pepper, who apparently said once that the seemingly Native American phrase witchi-tai-to doesn't actually mean anything. Still and all, it's a nice, soothing song that evokes the utopian we're-all-in-this-together warm fuzzy feeling that one only gets these days in San Francisco or on drug excursions.

Enjoy.