# 16 No estas solo

Roll up, roll up for my most favouritist song in the Eurovision Song Contest ever.

No estas solo, sung by Patricia Kraus', represented Spain in 1987 at a contest which oozed visual style both in it's presenter Viktor Laslo and the set. It makes me tingle watching it. And yes, I do watch it in its entirety from time to time even now.

Kraus' performance is powerful, even if her make-up is a little alarming close up, and this is no way understated by her choice of body morphing outfit which grips her waist like a vice.

I remember pouring over the video back in 1987 and somehow marvellous at the way she strode on to the stage with a green chiffon scarf across her shoulders. "She's not going to be able to sing with that on her," I remember thinking when I watched the contest and, sure enough, off she tosses it almost as soon as she's perched on her stool.

There was one other reason this particular act caught my eye and it's still the case now. I seem to recall thinking the miming guitarists were quite cute at the time. It's one of the few Eurovision opinions I had then I still have now.

But if there's one thing about this particular song which drives me wild every time I hear its that falling chord in the chorus before Kraus sings "radio" and does the twirly-mad action with her finger. That one chord turns me to jelly every single time.

Kraus came a miserable 19th place with a miserable 10 points in 1987. Frankly, I don't care about the score or the placing. Not really, anyway.

# 13 Dansevise

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...

# 1 Love is blue

Love is Blue may not immediately strike the passer-by as the most typical Eurovision song to feature first in this blog. The song sung at the 1967 Eurovision by a 14 year-old Vicky Leandros doesn’t conform to all the usual Eurovision stereotypes.

There’s no key change for a start. There’s no oompah-oompah sound. No eye-catching costumes.

That was all to come in later years. Some even consider it was signalled by the song which won the contest the same year Love is Blue was performed – the UK’s Puppet on a String.

In stark contrast, Love is Blue offers a strong yet hauntingly simple melody with an unusual orchestral accompaniment. There’s an earthiness to the overall sound in no small part down to the medieval sound of chord progressions and the switch to a major chord right at the end of the song. The seemingly endless repetitions of the simple melodic phrase which opens the song sucessfully permeates the brain making this song difficult to forget.

Was it a calculated move on the part of the composer Andre Poppe? It would certainly have done much to have cemented the thought of the song in the mind of the international juries at the time. That combined with the surprisingly mature sound of its singer and its undoubtedly simple yet stylish presentation would have made an impact.

It wasn't to be. Luxembourg didn't exactly languish in the final ranking, but it's fourth place at the end of the voting is a little bemusing looking back now. The song contains some ingenious writing.

But it's the subsequent commercial success of Love is Blue which secures the song’s place in Eurovision history. Paul Mauriat’s instrumental version released in 1968 secured five weeks at the top of the US charts in the same year. Featuring Mauriat’s trademark easy listening orchestral sound, it was this version which championed Andre Poppe’s melody even if the finished product sounds a little sanitised in comparison.

Should Love is Blue have won instead in 1967? I’ve been agonising over whether or not it should have done but have settled on an answer which mixes hindsight with a sense of superiority. The fact the song has become famous in it’s own right since Vicky Leandross’ performance gives it a kudos far weightier than a Eurovision win could have given it. And where Eurovision is concerned, kudos is everything.

The video below features the 1968 re-recording in a live performance conducted by Paul Mauriat himself.