Friends - song and lyrics by David Essex | Spotify

About the Song

Ah, “Oh What a Circus”! This track, from the musical Gatsby, offers a completely different flavor of David Essex. While many remember him for the rock anthems like “Rock On” or the tender ballads like “Hold Me Close,” “Oh What a Circus” showcases his versatility and theatrical flair. It’s a vibrant, energetic, and slightly manic piece that perfectly captures the frenetic energy of the Roaring Twenties, the backdrop for F. Scott Fitzgerald’s iconic novel, The Great Gatsby.

David Essex wasn’t just a pop star; he was a true performer, comfortable on stage as well as in the recording studio. 1 His background in musical theater shines through in “Oh What a Circus.” It’s not just a song; it’s a performance. He embodies the character, throwing himself into the role with gusto. You can almost picture him on stage, strutting and swaggering, surrounded by flapper girls and jazz musicians.

The song itself is a whirlwind of musical styles. It’s got elements of jazz, ragtime, and even a touch of vaudeville. It’s a chaotic, yet carefully orchestrated, explosion of sound that perfectly mirrors the decadent and often reckless atmosphere of the Jazz Age. The lyrics, full of colorful imagery and witty observations, paint a vivid picture of a society obsessed with pleasure and excess. It’s a world of champagne, parties, and fleeting romances, where appearances are everything and reality is often blurred.

What makes “Oh What a Circus” so captivating is its sheer exuberance. It’s a celebration of life, albeit a slightly狂乱 celebration. Essex’s performance is infectious; you can’t help but get caught up in the energy of the song. It’s a reminder that life, like a circus, can be full of surprises, thrills, and maybe even a little bit of danger. So, if you’re looking for a David Essex track that’s a little bit different, a little bit theatrical, and a whole lot of fun, then “Oh What a Circus” is definitely worth a listen. It’s a testament to his talent as a performer and his ability to inhabit a song completely. It’s a musical journey back to a bygone era, a time of glamour, extravagance, and a whole lot of razzmatazz.David Essex on the emotional turmoil being a 70s pin-up caused | Daily Mail  Online

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Lyrics: Oh What A Circus 

Oh what a circus! Oh what a show!
Argentina has gone to town
Over the death of an actress called Eva Peron
We’ve all gone crazy
Mourning all day and mourning all night
Falling over ourselves to get all, of the misery right

Oh what an exit! That’s how to go!
When they’re ringing your curtain down
Demand to be buried like Eva Peron
It’s quite a sunset
And good for the country in a roundabout way
We’ve made the front pages of all, the world’s papers today

But who is this Santa Evita?
Why all this howling hysterical sorrow?
What kind of goddess has lived among us?
How will we ever get by without her?

She had her moments–she had some style
The best show in town was the crowd
Outside the Casa Rosada crying, “Eva Peron”
But that’s all gone now
As soon as the smoke from the funeral clears
We’re all gonna see and howl, she did nothing for years!

Salve regina mater misericordiae
Vita dulcedo et spes nostra
Salve salve regina
Ad te clamamus exules filii Eva
Ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes
O clemens o pia

You let down your people Evita
You were supposed to have been immortal
That’s all they wanted
Not much to ask for
But in the end you could not deliver

Salve regina mater misericordiae
Vita dulcedo et spes nostra
Salve salve regina Peron
Ad te clamamus exules filii Eva
Ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes
O clemens o pia

You Missed

Patsy stood in a dress she felt was a costume, fighting the producer’s demand to sing a song she genuinely disliked. The studio lights at Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts burned hot that January night in 1957. Patsy stood backstage with a heart set on performing a different ballad, holding a vision of her own career that didn’t include the uptempo swing of a song she found tedious. She wanted the emotional weight of a country tear-jerker; the producer wanted a hit. The pressure in that dressing room was palpable, a quiet collision between an artist’s stubborn intuition and the cold machinery of television producers who cared more about broadcast tempo than personal conviction. She walked out there wearing a cocktail dress instead of her usual cowgirl gear, an image she felt didn’t belong to her. As the cameras rolled, she surrendered to the arrangement. She sang those lyrics she didn’t care for, her voice cutting through the air with a clean, haunting authority that demanded the nation’s attention. By the time the final note hung in the rafters, she hadn’t just won a competition; she had fundamentally altered the trajectory of her life. The audience erupted, and Arthur Godfrey broke protocol to tell her she had secured the victory before the commercial break even arrived. Success is often a fickle companion that arrives wearing the face of a stranger. That song, the one she fought against until the very last second, cemented her name on the charts and defined the sound of her breakthrough. She stood under those bright lights, the applause washing over a woman who had finally and accidentally found the exact sound the world was waiting for.

To save his career, a Tennessee farm boy had to learn how to walk, sing, and breathe inside the glass walls of an urban professional studio. By the late 1950s, the steel guitars and cowboy boots that propelled Eddy Arnold to the top of the charts were gathering dust. The radio airwaves had shifted beneath his feet, and the hits that once felt effortless were drying up entirely. Arnold stood at a crossroads, staring down the very real possibility of packing his bags and leaving the music business for good. He was a man out of time, clinging to an image that the new American consumer no longer wanted to buy. Instead of bowing out, he began a slow, deliberate demolition of the persona that had made him a star. The rustic, down-home threads were traded for the sharp, muted formality of a tuxedo. The steel guitars were replaced by sweeping orchestral arrangements and velvet-smooth vocal deliveries designed for supper clubs rather than honky-tonks. He was not just updating his sound; he was performing an act of total reinvention, moving from the farmhouse to the high-rise with startling, cold calculation. When he recorded Make the World Go Away in 1965, the gamble achieved something profound. The song bypassed the traditional country boundaries, finding a home on the pop charts and turning his perceived failure into a second, far more lucrative life. He never went back to the plow. He sat under the studio lights, a man who had successfully traded his heritage for a tuxedo and a permanent place in the modern spotlight.