In Eurovision circles there's a massive question mark over the 1963 Eurovision Song Contest, which this song from Denmark sung by Grethe Ingman won.
John Kennedy O'Connor's Eurovision book raises the thorny issue again about whether the songs were pre-recorded by the BBC in the event they hosted from the then newly built Television Centre in West London.
Look closely and you'll not see any microphones in shot. Look even closer and you may, like me, wonder whether the singers are singing at all seeing as the breaths they take don't seem hearty enough. We don't see the usual shots of the orchestra. There's not shot of the audience during the songs. Historians love this kind of thing.
Is that paranoia? Is this Eurovision fandom looking for conspiracy and intrigue when it's not there?
Well, possibly. Today is the first time I've actually heard Dansevise. I haven't stopped playing it all day. It has an unusual style to it with an ingratiating lilt sung by a woman with a sparkle in her eyes, an enticing smile and momentary pout. It's a song with a melody so strong and catchy that I was able to whistle the tune as soon as I'd heard it. In that respect, this song transcends the Eurovision style as it was in those early years (very "middle of the road" in terms of pop and certainly not reflective of the Beatle's then success) and certainly transcends Eurovision now.
Musically, it's quite unusual too. Here's a jazz-based song with an unusual yet organic melody accompanied by a dizzying array of chords. The unusual orchestration is more reminiscent of the year it was performed in (unusual in Eurovision terms) and, because of its relative complexity stands up well to repeat listens. Who knew Eurovision songs could be so robust?
If there's a huge question over whether the BBC filmed the event then in 1963, listening to the song now makes that question of little import to me even though I'm the first to admit I'm a pendant when it comes to protecting the Eurovision traditions even if they're outmoded.
Quite apart from Denmark's strongest song in the entire history and a shameless love of nostalgia on my part, there is another reason I find this act and the 1963 contest as a whole one of the most appealing events in the Contest's history.
I walk through Television Centre nearly every day on my way to meetings. Sometimes I meet friends for a drink in the bar or take my lunch in the canteen a short walk away from the tower I have my desk in. These places and the studios I walk past are where Eurovision history in 1963 was secured and where I find myself indulging my shameless love of nostalgia. To most people the studios are vast ugly spaces situated in a relatively inaccessible part of London where few people want to visit. To me, they're places with a palpable sense of history, a sometimes overwhelming feeling.
I've deliberately included the reprise of the song at the end of the contest below. Before I'd seen the video of the contest I'd spent a week pouring over the files at the BBC's Written Archive Centre in Caversham reading what was discussed, what was planned, who was frustrated with whom, who wasn't delivering on their word and what plans the commissionaires had to follow to make sure the artists didn't get lost in Television Centre.
The names which croppped up in the letters and the memos and the minutes of meetings with frightening regularity were the names of the production staff in the credits at the end of show.
Those names almost certainly won't mean anything to anyone now. Despite that, I'm struck by one key thing which struck me back at the Written Archives Centre. In 1963 the Eurovision Song Contest was directed by a woman, Yvonne Littlewood. That was very, very unusual.
I could wax lyrical about 1963 but there's no space to here. Still, at least there are fifteen other things from that year...
